What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas
by J0
Summary: Steve becomes dangerously ill on a trip to a police investigators' confernece in Las Vegas, but are all of his medical problems just bad luck? CH8: Steve is feeling better and heading home, but...
1. Coffee, Tea, or Crackers and Ginger Ale

**Disclaimer: **This is a work of fan fiction written for fun and not for profit. All _Diagnosis Murder_ characters are property of CBS/Viacom. Original characters, including Danny O'Shea and "Winnie" a.k.a. Wincel Atherton Eubanks, III, are mine.

**Spoilers:** Ok, there is one, I admit it, but if I tell you what it is, and you have seen the episode, it will spoil _my_ story, so I don't know what to do about that! I guess you can e-mail me if you really need to know. My e-mail is on my info page on this site.

**What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas**

**Chapter One: **Coffee, Tea, or Crackers and Ginger Ale?

Steve Sloan looked at the contents of the toilet bowl in horror and disgust as he rinsed his mouth and spat. Throwing up seemed to have aggravated the strained muscles in his back and side, and though it had relieved some of his discomfort, he was still very nauseous. He winced as his sore muscles protested the movement of reaching out for the handle and flushing, and hoped he would feel better in the morning.

He wasn't sure how he had hurt his back, but he figured he was doing some simple thing he did every day and just didn't notice it at the time. It seemed that taking out his suitcase, packing, and being sick had all aggravated the injury, and he was in considerable discomfort now. Swallowing a couple of aspirin for his pain and some tablets to settle his stomach, he smiled slightly, glad that the rest of the world didn't really care how he had hurt himself, and grateful that he couldn't remember. He still recalled when the San Francisco Giants had been forced to put an embarrassed Sammy Sosa on the disabled list when he sneezed and strained a ligament in his back.

Steve frowned as he realized 'I don't remember' would be the wrong thing to say if his father noticed he was hurting and asked what had happened. The soreness had been bothering him for a few days, though, and he decided he could blame it on taking out the trash at Bob's. He hated lying to his dad, but he wanted to avoid worrying him, and not knowing what had caused the mysterious pain would worry Mark. Steve knew if his father pressed him, he would continue the small deception by pointing out that a few days relaxing beside the pool in Las Vegas, when he wasn't attending conference meetings, of course, would be just what the doctor would order if he were allowed to examine the injury.

Having brushed his teeth, Steve stripped down, slid into bed, pulled up the covers, and tried to remember what he had eaten that day. He wasn't feeling any fever or pain, aside from the strained muscle at any rate, so he didn't think he could really be sick, it was just that something he'd eaten had disagreed with him. He turned over, trying to find a position that was more comfortable for his sore back, and really hoped the nausea was just a bit of indigestion. He'd missed breakfast, eaten lunch at the hospital, and dinner at Bob's, and if he'd gotten sick on something he'd had at either of those places, he knew his father and friends would be suffering, too, because they had joined him at both meals.

His frown deepened as he realized that, if he had gotten sick from the food at Bob's, the restaurant was in for some serious trouble because there would be a large number of other victims, and they all would be angry. His heart beat a little faster as he considered the possibility of lawsuits and media coverage. He and Jesse, and to a lesser extent, his father, had all put a good deal of time and energy, not to mention money, heart, and soul, into the restaurant over the years. The business had gotten over a murdered marine and a crazy man who had tried to goad Steve into killing him, but a food poisoning scandal was something that no restaurant could survive unscathed.

Rolling over again, he groaned slightly as his sore muscles complained once more. The food had smelled and tasted fine. No one else had mentioned feeling ill. They were very careful about sanitation and avoiding cross-contamination in the kitchen. Chances were, if it was the food at Bob's, they would have gotten complaints from the lunch crowd by the time they began serving dinner. Satisfied for the moment that it was just him and absolutely, positively could not be the food from his restaurant, Steve changed position once more, and settled in to go to sleep. If anyone else had gotten ill, he would hear about it in the morning because his dad had planned a _bon voyage_ breakfast for him and Cheryl before they left for their conference in Las Vegas.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

Steve awoke in the darkness and looked over to his clock. The red numbers told him it was three seventeen in the morning. His dad's breakfast was planned for eight, which would give him and Cheryl just enough time to get to the airport for their eleven o'clock flight. As he lay there, staring at the ceiling, Steve felt a rumble begin in his stomach and, even alone in the dark, he couldn't help smiling self-consciously. His stomach was demanding food only hours after violently rejecting it.

Grunting softly from the pain of his sore back, Steve sat up on the edge of the bed, pulled his shorts on, and climbed the stairs to the kitchen. Once there, he made a beeline for the fridge, and, after several moments of squinting into the light and frowning because nothing he saw particularly appealed to him, his eyes came to rest on a jar of strawberry jam, and he smiled.

Taking the jam out of the refrigerator, he turned toward the counter where he switched on the small light in the range hood. Getting a plate from one cupboard, and the crunchy peanut butter from another, he found two slices of bread in the breadbox and took a knife from the drawer. Whistling softly and tunelessly to himself, he slathered peanut butter thickly on one slice of bread and smeared strawberry jam on the other. After pressing the two slices of bread together, he put the jam away, and got out the milk and a glass.

Fifteen minutes later, he was wiping down the counter. When he was finished, he drained the last of his milk in one huge gulp, rinsed the glass, placed it in the sink with the plate and knife, and headed back to bed feeling very contented and relieved to know he wasn't really sick.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

Steve awoke again, gasping in pain this time, and he had just glanced at the clock to see that it was quarter of five when a sudden wave of nausea overcame him. He threw aside the covers and sprinted toward the bathroom, dropping to his knees before the toilet just in time to hurl the contents of his stomach into the bowl. For the next few minutes the nausea was so intense and the vomiting was so forceful it seemed as if his entire body, and not just his stomach alone, was intent upon expelling whatever had upset it so. Every time he retched, an inhuman noise came from his throat, and while he couldn't understand how he was making such a racket, he silently prayed that it wouldn't wake his dad.

After what seemed an eternity, he slumped back away from the commode and moaned softly. His abs were getting sore from the workout they had just received, and the strained muscle in his back was protesting the abuse as well. Lethargically, he rose to his feet, drew a glass of water from the sink, rinsed his mouth, and spat. Then he drew another glass of water and sipped it slowly as he tried to gather himself and think about his situation.

In two hours, he had to get up and get ready for his trip to Las Vegas. He really didn't want to miss the opportunity because, besides the informative meetings he would be attending and the new technology he would be learning about, he had a presentation to give on Friday. To be perfectly honest, he was also really looking forward to meeting his fellow police officers from across the country and spending time in the casinos and beside the pool. He'd seen Kathryn Wakeley's name on the list of presenters, and he was hoping to get together with her, too. It just wouldn't do to be sick now, but he knew, if there was something seriously wrong with him, getting on a plane for Vegas was the last thing he should be doing.

Reaching out to open the medicine cabinet so he could get the thermometer made his sore muscles complain again, and he groaned softly. Not really convinced that he was doing the right thing, but too stubborn to do anything else, he put the thermometer under his tongue and very firmly decided that, as long as he wasn't running a fever, he would just return to his bed and hope he felt better in the morning. While he waited for the electronic beep that would tell him his temperature had registered, he flushed the toilet and put some toothpaste on his toothbrush, thinking that he would want to brush the nasty taste out of his mouth before going back to sleep.

The thermometer beeped, and he took it out of his mouth, squinting to read the numbers. With a small sigh of relief, he noted that his temperature was normal. Rooting around in the medicine cabinet, he found a few more tablets for his stomach and an aspirin alternative for his sore back and now, abdominal muscles, too. After taking the pills with plenty of water, he brushed his teeth and headed back to bed for the third time that night, hoping desperately to feel better in the morning, or at least well enough that he could hide his discomfort from his father.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

When the alarm went off, Steve slapped the snooze button, and spent the first ten minutes of the day assessing his health. He was sleepy, and with good reason, no doubt about that, but other than a mild headache, probably the result of sleep deprivation, he felt fine. He had not the slightest twinge of nausea, and even the strained muscle in his back hurt less. So, with a yawn and a stretch, he climbed out of bed and headed for the shower. Twenty minutes later, he was sprinting up the steps, his suitcase in one hand, his socks and shoes in the other.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," Cheryl laughingly called to him as he came down the hallway to the kitchen. "Are you about ready?"

"I sure am," he told her as he pulled on his socks and stepped into his shoes. "My bag is packed and waiting by the door."

"Get a load of this guy," Jesse taunted. "He lives the closest, and he's the last to arrive. Come on, Steve, I've been waiting at least ten minutes, and I'm starving. Your dad wouldn't let us start without you."

Steve took a big whiff of the wonderful smells his father's cooking had generated, and, as he took his seat, he said, "Well, don't let me delay you any longer, Jess. Dig in."

As platters of food made their way around the table, Steve helped himself to pancakes and sausage, fried eggs, bacon, toast and muffins. To avoid his father's disapproving looks, he also added a pile of freshly sliced strawberries and melon balls and poured himself a big glass of orange juice. The friends laughed and talked their way through breakfast, and Steve gave his word that he would send CJ and Dion each a post card while he was in Vegas. He also jokingly promised Jesse that he would try not to win too much at poker for fear the house would think he was cheating and try to arrest him.

Once they had finished eating, many hands made light work, and in a matter of minutes, the table was cleared, the dishwasher loaded, and the leftover muffins and sausage put away. Then everyone headed out the door. Amanda was on her way to her mother's to pick up the boys after they had spent the night with their grandma. Jesse had to work, and Mark was taking Steve and Cheryl to the airport. She had actually ridden out to the beach house with Jesse, so her car was still safely tucked away in her garage.

Out in the driveway, Steve offered to transfer Cheryl's suitcases from Jesse's car to his dad's, but when he lifted the dauntingly large bag from the trunk, the sore muscle in his back spasmed painfully and he had to quickly lower the oversized luggage to the ground. Moving her carryon from his left hand to his left shoulder, he then picked up the heavy bag with his left hand and was just able to move it over to his dad's car. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed his discomfort, but Amanda and Cheryl were busy chatting, and Jesse was about to back out of the driveway, shouting that he was late for work, calling his goodbyes through the open window of his car, and wishing Cheryl and Steve a safe trip. His dad had been busy making room for the luggage, so Steve was relieved to realize that no one had spotted his awkward moment.

Once the bags were loaded, Steve surprised Cheryl by holding the front door open for her. "Would you like to ride up front with Dad?" he asked.

"Thanks," she smiled, "but you're taller. I'll be fine in the back."

"Cheryl," he insisted, "it's a Mercedes. It's not like there isn't any leg room."

"Well, ok, if you're sure," she said, giving him a slightly confused look.

"I am, now get in, or we'll be late for our flight."

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant," she teased, and climbed into the passenger seat.

After making sure that she was settled in the car, Steve closed the door and got in behind her. The fact was, his back was suddenly killing him again, and he wanted to avoid his father's scrutiny or they would be making a side trip to the hospital for some x-rays on the way to the airport. Once they were out in heavy traffic and his dad's attention was focused on driving, he began subtly rolling and shrugging his shoulders, and twisting his upper body to stretch the cramping muscle, but nothing he did seemed to help. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he settled into the rich leather seat and tried to enjoy the rest of the ride to the airport.

At the airport, he suppressed a groan as he got out of the car, and instead of testing his sore back further, he waved a skycap over to unload the suitcases. While the man was busy with their bags, Steve opened the door for Cheryl and then went round the car to say goodbye to his dad. Mark had gotten out, presumably to help with the luggage, but since the porter had everything under control, he just stood there, behind the car, watching. And as Steve approached him, he narrowed his eyes with a knowing look.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah," Steve replied, trying to sound confused, "why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know," Mark answered. "You look tired."

"Well, I had a bit of a restless night," Steve admitted. It wasn't exactly a lie.

"Excited about the trip or nervous about the flight?"

Steve grinned. "Yeah." He wasn't afraid to fly, but he certainly preferred driving when he had the choice because it put him in control, and he was looking forward to the conference and to seeing some of the friends he had made on previous trips to various cities.

"Well, try to get some rest on the plane," Mark suggested as he shared a warm handshake with his son and gave him an affectionate squeeze on the shoulder. Leaning over to give Steve's partner a peck on the cheek, he said, "Cheryl, enjoy your trip and try to keep him out of trouble."

"That's a full time job, Doctor Sloan," she said jokingly, "and this trip is supposed to be a semi-vacation."

"I know," Mark replied with a grin, "but would you do it for me?"

"Hey, you know I always have his back."

"Well, I will leave you two to get checked in," Mark said as he went around the car and climbed in. Putting down the passenger side window, he told them, "Enjoy the conference, and Steve, don't forget those postcards for CJ and Dion."

"I won't, Dad," Steve replied patiently, trying not to squirm too much as his back started giving him hell again. Then he waved and stepped away from the curb so his father could drive away.

As they turned and followed the skycap into the terminal, Cheryl looked up at her partner and said, "You know, you don't look so good."

"I'll be fine," Steve grumbled, and reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his wallet and gave Cheryl a few bills. "Here's some money for a tip. I'm going to find a men's room. I'll meet you at the gate."

Before she could reply, he headed off in his own direction, intent on finding a shop that sold aspirin or something like it to ease pain of the intense spasms he was having in his back.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

Cheryl couldn't help watching her partner, and it wasn't just because he was such a handsome man, she mused, though he was indeed that. She kept watching him because she was seriously concerned that he was becoming gravely ill before her very eyes, and she could do nothing to help him. Twice while they were waiting in the lounge to be called to board their flight, she had suggested that a change of plans might be in order. The first time she had been rudely rebuffed with an admonishment to, 'Quit acting like my mother, you're much too young.' The second time, Steve had finally confessed that he had been suffering from a pulled back muscle for a few days and that it didn't seem to be getting any better. He promised he would see the hotel doctor about it if it got any worse after they arrived in Vegas, and he made her promise to leave him alone in the meantime.

Now, though, she was finding her end of the bargain increasingly difficult to keep. As the plane had climbed to cruising altitude, Steve had gotten paler and paler, then he had developed a slight sheen of perspiration, and his breathing had become rapid and ragged. His eyes were closed and his face was drawn in a tight mask of pain, and every now and then he would gasp or groan when it became too much to bear. Finally, after one particularly bad spasm left him shuddering, Cheryl decided she couldn't, in good conscience, honor her part of their deal.

"Uh, Steve?"

"Don't say it, Cheryl!" he grunted through tightly clenched teeth.

"Say what?"

"'I told you so!' I just don't want to hear it."

"Oh. Actually, I was going to ask if you would let me page one of the flight attendants."

"What for? What could they do?"

"Well, if there is room in first class, they might let you go up there," she suggested. "At least you would have more room to stretch out and try to get comfortable. Maybe, if there is a doctor on board, he can give you something stronger that whatever you have already taken for the pain. I don't know, there must be something they can do. I'm getting really worried."

Steve turned his head to look at her and tried a smile, but it quickly turned into a grimace as he turned green. Leaning forward, he began to rummage frantically in the storage pocket on the back of the seat in front of him.

"Steve?"

"Do you have an airsick bag over there?" he asked.

"Um, I don't know, let me look."

"Can't wait," he said curtly, unfastened his seat belt, and tried to stand.

Even before he could get his balance, a flight attendant was by his side. "Sir, I'm sorry but you have to stay in your seat until the fasten seatbelts light has gone out."

"Can't. Gonna be . . ."

His words were cut off as a thick, white, waxy paper bag was thrust, already opened, into his hands just in time. It was a humiliating moment for him, as he stood there, hunched over and retching. The force of his body's rebellion squeezed tears from his eyes, made his nose run, and made his knees go weak. He could hear the other passengers murmuring, and though he wanted to apologize for disturbing them, it was all he could do to keep breathing. If it weren't for the steadying hands of Cheryl and the flight attendant, and the fact that he was leaning heavily against the seat in front of his, he probably would have fallen over.

The ordeal ended as suddenly as it had begun, and, after taking a moment to orient himself, Steve collapsed carefully into his seat. He fumbled for a bit, trying to close the bag and fold the tabs down to seal it, but the stewardess gingerly took it from him before he could spill it all over. Then he just closed his eyes and sat there for a little bit.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, too embarrassed to even look at the young woman. "That has never happened to me before."

"It's all right, sir," she replied kindly. "You might just be the first passenger I have ever had who managed to get it all in the bag."

Steve supposed the comment was meant to lighten his mood, but it only made him feel worse. Even so, he managed a smile, though he didn't open his eyes.

"I'll just dispose of this, and bring you some water and . . . uh . . . another bag, just in case."

"Don't bother," Steve murmured, with his eyes still closed, "I feel better now."

By the time the young woman returned, Steve was dozing pleasantly. Though his eyes were closed, he was awake and aware of what was going on around him. He was just too exhausted to respond to any of it. He heard Cheryl say, "I'll take those," and sensed something being passed across in front of him, probably some bottled water and a fresh barf bag, and then his partner asked quietly for a blanket and a pillow. A few minutes later, he felt his seat slowly lean back; the blanket was tucked around him and the pillow was slipped under his head. Cheryl's cool hand caressed his face, probably checking for signs of fever, and that was all he knew until the plane hit the tarmac in Las Vegas.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

"Look, I feel fine," Steve said adamantly, and, as if to prove a point, he pulled both of their heavy suitcases off the luggage carousel at the same time and headed off to the taxi stand.

"All I am saying is that it couldn't hurt to get checked out," Cheryl said as she snatched their carryon bags off the rotating track.

"I don't think it's necessary," he insisted. "I really am all right."

"Maybe you are, but you were violently ill on the plane, and in obvious pain," she reminded him.

"And now I'm not, so let it go," Steve said impatiently and picked up his pace a little.

Cheryl kept up with him easily, partly because she was carrying the lighter load. "Ok, I'll drop it, for now," she said reluctantly. "But I still expect you to hold up your end of our deal and see the hotel doctor if your back starts to hurt again or if you get sick. I promised your dad I'd look after you, and if you don't cooperate, I'm going to tell on you."

She had deliberately finished off her argument with a touch of humor, knowing that if she could make her partner smile he would be more likely to agree. Also, if he were truly ill, it would be easier to get him to go along with her suggestions later if she avoided angering him now. She was pleased to see that her strategy had the desired effect.

"I'll honor our agreement," he said, and then smiling slyly down at her as he stopped at the curb and stood waiting for their turn at a taxi, he added, "even though you didn't."

He didn't say the words, he rarely did, but Cheryl could tell from his gently teasing tone that he had been grateful for her concern even in spite of the fact that it was slightly irritating now.

"Hey," Cheryl reminded him, "our original agreement was about your backache. It had nothing to do with you puking your guts out for the stewardess."

Steve grimaced. She'd just shot down his good humor, but he could hardly be angry with her for speaking the truth. "Don't remind me," he muttered, and gratefully moved over to the trunk of the taxi that had pulled up in front of them so he could help the driver load their bags.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

By the time they got to the hotel, both Steve and Cheryl were anxious to check in. Cheryl wanted to unpack and look up some old friends and close acquaintances with whom she could hit the casinos before the conference got started with the official convocation ceremonies later that evening. Steve just wanted a few minutes away from her appraising eyes to decide exactly how healthy he was feeling and whether or not he needed to lie down for a while before he connected with a couple old friends of his own.

When the taxi pulled up to the front entrance of their hotel, a porter came out and helped the cabbie with their bags. He greeted them cordially and welcomed them, and then he led them in to the front desk. The lobby and what Steve could see of the casino had a heavy Mafia theme that made Steve distinctly uneasy. While cities like New York and Chicago sometimes took a perverse pride in their Mob history, Vegas practically reveled in it. Steve imagined it was romantic and exciting to most tourists, but to him, having dealt too many times with the human casualties of such organizations, he found it rather disturbing and depressing.

"Steve Sloan and Cheryl Banks," Steve said as he approached the desk. "We're here for the Police Investigators' Conference."

The young blonde behind the desk tapped a few keys on her computer, frowned slightly at the screen, and then smiled up at him. "If you'll excuse me a moment, sir, I just need to call and confirm this reservation, and then I'll take care of you."

Steve tried hard to convince himself that all the Mob memorabilia surrounding him had made him slightly paranoid, but he couldn't help feeling the girl's behavior had been a little odd. So, as casually as he could, he wandered down the length of the desk toward her, picked up one of the hotel's tourist brochures, and tried to eavesdrop on her conversation as he pretended to read about the sights and sensations of the infamous 'Sin City'.

"Yes, I'm sure it's him," she said quietly into the phone. "Steve Sloan, and he looks just like the picture you showed me . . . Sure, I can stall him for a couple of minutes . . . Ok, but hurry."

Steve moved quickly back to Cheryl as the woman finished her conversation, and he said, "Something is about to happen. I don't know what, but I don't think it will be good."

She gave him a look that clearly said she thought he had taken leave of his sense. "What are you talking about?"

"Someone is looking for me," he said. "The girl just made a call to tell somebody I was here. Apparently, she has been given a picture of me to be sure she would know when I came in."

"Maybe it's one of your Fed friends," Cheryl suggested tauntingly, still thinking it was some kind of joke. "They're not great ones for subtlety."

"No," Steve said, "they're not due to arrive for a couple more hours. We had plans to meet for drinks this evening."

"Detective Sloan," a voice called out across the lobby, and Steve automatically reached for his gun, which wasn't there.

Wheeling to find the person who had called him, and maneuvering to place his own body between his partner and the potential threat, he was surprised to find a rather pleasant-looking, dark-haired young man crossing the lobby to meet him.

"I'm Danny O'Shea," the newcomer said, holding out his hand to shake, "one of the casino hosts."

He fumbled a bit when Steve refused to take his hand, but brightened his grin when Cheryl stepped out from behind her partner. "And you must be Detective Banks," he continued almost without pause, and shook her hand instead.

"Forgive me if I seem a bit rude, but I don't believe I know you," Steve said, moving slightly forward so that the young man had to step back and distance himself from Cheryl.

"Oh, I wouldn't expect you to, but we did meet once in L.A."

Giving young Mr. O'Shea a grin that showed too many teeth to be friendly and using a tone that was more a threat than a request, Steve said, "Then perhaps you should refresh my memory."

"Steve," Cheryl hissed.

He cut her a look that clearly said, _Be quiet, I'll handle this,_ and then he looked back at O'Shea. "Well?"

"My sister was Meghan O'Shea LaRue," he said as if that explained everything.

From those few words, Steve knew, it was something the young man's voice, the way it seemed difficult for him to say her name, the way he softened his tone when he spoke of her, like he was invoking some magic word, that she had been one of his cases.

"I'm sorry, but I don't remember her."

"I'm not surprised," the host said. "There were so many names. She and my four-year-old niece, Callie, had spent the day shopping in L.A. They were just about to leave the city when the parking garage they were in blew up."

Steve nodded, "I remember now, that was one of Carter Sweeney's bombings. I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Yes, I know," O'Shea replied, "I was in court for your testimony, and I could tell you had a lot of compassion for all the victims and the loved ones they left behind. That's why I asked Lori," he gestured toward the receptionist at the desk, "to let me know when you arrived. I just happened to spot your name on the list of guests registered for this conference and, I, uh, I wanted to thank you again for what you did. I've arranged with the hotel manager to upgrade your room to a luxury suite, and I got some complimentary tickets for you to see Penn and Teller tomorrow night."

"I was just doing my job, Mr. O'Shea," Steve said, a bit taken aback, "none of that is necessary."

"I know, and that only makes it all the more admirable," the young man answered, "I want to do this for you, and please, call me Danny."

"Ok, Danny," Steve said. "I appreciate the gesture, and I don't mean to be rude, but I can't accept."

"Actually, you can," Danny said. "You have no jurisdiction here, so there is no problem with you accepting complimentary services from the hotel or casino. I looked into it before I made any arrangements."

"Look," Steve said patiently, "I appreciate what you are trying to do, but a lot of people worked on that investigation, and there are a lot of other fine officers at this conference who do what I did and more every day. It wouldn't be right for me . . . "

"Detective Sloan, please," Danny pleaded. "I understand what you are saying, and I don't deny that, but _you_ did something that mattered to _me_, personally. You got justice for my sister and her daughter. If any of the other people involved in that investigation were here, I would be doing the same for them. In fact, I have made the same arrangements for Agent Wagner. It would really mean a lot to me if you would accept this small gesture since I will never be able to show you how truly grateful I am for what you did."

The young man seemed so sincere that Steve wanted to accept, but he had to pause and wrestle a moment more with his conscience as he thought about all the other cops at the conference who would not receive special treatment because they didn't just coincidentally happen to have a connection to one of the hotel staff. He could tell Cheryl would like to experience the luxury of a suite instead of the LAPD's normal economy lodgings, and he would like to share such a boon with her, but he couldn't convince himself it was the right thing to do. Before he could make a decision for himself, though, Danny O'Shea and the receptionist made it for him.

"Lori, help me out here," Danny called.

The pretty blonde tapped a couple of keys on the computer and then affected a vapid giggle. "Oops!" she said sweetly and fluttered her lashes at Steve. "It looks like we accidentally double-booked your room, and the other party has already checked in. I'm afraid all we have left is one of the penthouse suites. Of course, since this was our mistake, there will be no additional charge. Is that all right?"

Steve looked at Danny askance and said, "That's cheating."

Danny just shrugged.

"All right, I accept your hospitality," Steve finally acquiesced. "But . . .," he paused. He had been going to say, _I really wish you hadn't_, but that would have sounded ungrateful. "But it really wasn't necessary," he said instead.

"Maybe not for you," Danny said, "but it was for me."

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

As Steve returned to the table with his third plate, this time heaping full with two burgers and a mound of steak fries from the late night buffet, he fended off his companions' amazed looks by telling them, "Hey, I missed lunch."

Cheryl was the only one who knew it wasn't entirely true, but she kindly refrained from saying anything. The fact was, once they had checked in at the hotel and registered for the conference, Steve had decided discretion was the better part of valor, and after unpacking, he had chosen to take a nap in the king-sized bed in his half of the suite while Cheryl went off to explore the casino. He had awoken around two, feeling a little hungry, but, reluctant to press his luck with a heavy lunch, he had called room service and ordered chicken soup with crackers and gingerale, which the waiter had served to him while he relaxed in the Jacuzzi that was located just across from the main bathroom of the suite. It had settled well in his stomach, and by the time he and Cheryl met Ron Wagner and Kathryn Wakeley for dinner, he was ravenous again.

When he had introduced Cheryl to Ron and Kathryn, he had been amused to see his partner's eyes light up when the tall handsome man shook her hand. The attraction was obviously mutual as Ron had held her chair for her when they were seated and had stayed close to her all evening, only leaving her side to fetch her a cup of coffee or a piece of cheesecake from the dessert bar. Steve secretly wondered how Amanda might feel to know her detective friend and her FBI agent had enjoyed each other's company so much, but he decided that it would be best to inform Cheryl later that, although Ron and Amanda were by no means an exclusive couple anymore, they had been very serious for a while. He knew she would want to be considerate of Amanda's feelings if they ever had the opportunity to discuss the conference, but she could only do that if she knew all the facts.

As for himself and Kathryn, well, he had thought they had worked out all of their problems the last time they had worked together, but she was being a little standoffish. He didn't think he had done anything to make her angry, but he could tell something was wrong, and he knew he would have to talk to her later. Tonight though, was for good times and getting reacquainted with old friends. It was neither the time nor the place to discuss his plans for later in the evening.

". . . he should have blown himself sky high, but there he was," Ron laughed, "a little bit singed, and with the toilet seat hanging around his neck, but otherwise unharmed."

Cheryl laughed with him, and then said, "That sounds like a guy Steve once told me about. Steve, tell them about that guy at the birthing class when you pretended to be a paramedic to get inside. What was his name, Fox or Wolf, some kind of animal, wasn't it? Steve? Steve?"

"Huh?" Steve shook his head to clear his thoughts.

"Tell them about the guy with the bomb who walked into Amanda's birthing class. What was his name?"

"Oh, Bare, Bob Bare," Steve said, still distracted. "He built a bomb with instructions he found on the internet, but when he finally surrendered, he couldn't figure out how to disarm it."

Everyone around the table blinked in confusion, obviously not seeing much humor in the situation. Cheryl gave him a mildly frustrated look and a playful swat on the arm, saying, "You left out the rabbit." Looking at Ron and Kathryn, she added, "It was much funnier last time he told it."

Ron chuckled slightly and said, "I guess we should all just be grateful that some people have more luck than brains."

Cheryl nodded her agreement and laughed with him, but Kathryn put a hand on Steve's arm and asked, "Steve, are you all right? You just seem a bit out of it."

Steve shook his head again and said, "I'm sorry, guys, I've just been under the weather the past couple of days." He gave his half-demolished plate a mildly disgusted look and said, "I think I should make an early night of it."

Cheryl shot him a look that said_ Remember our deal_, but she only asked him, "Are you still feeling poorly?"

"No, I'm fine, just tired," he said, rising from his seat and hoping Kathryn would follow him as he suddenly felt the need to spend some time alone with her. "I'll see you all in the morning."

Kathryn rose, too and said, "I'll walk you to your room. It's been a long day for me, too, and I need to get my beauty sleep." Smiling back at Cheryl and Ron, she said, "You two have a pleasant evening. I'll see you tomorrow."


	2. Misery Looking for Some Company

**Chapter Two: **Misery Looking for Some Company

Steve let Kathryn cross the threshold first, after he had unlocked the door and pushed it open for her. Then he followed her down the short hall and into the room because there wasn't space for him to pass her and lead her into his half of the suite he was sharing with Cheryl. He was slightly disappointed when she walked straight through his area and into the common room that separated him from his partner, but he figured they could make their way back to the sleeping quarters whenever they were ready.

He really was tired and wanted to change into his comfortable old sweats as soon as possible, so as he followed her into the living area, he shed his button-down shirt, tossed it onto the arm of the easy chair in the corner, and grabbed his LAPD sweatshirt from where he had left it at the foot of the bed. As he walked out into the main part of the suite, naked from the waist up, he couldn't miss the flash of appreciation in Kathryn's eyes as she looked at him, but since the air conditioner was running and doing its job well, he put the sweatshirt on anyway, knowing he could always take it off again later.

"Your suite is the exact opposite of ours," Kathryn said. "From the placement of the furniture to the color scheme, everything is the opposite."

"The color scheme?" Steve enquired, not sure what she meant.

"We have green walls and burgundy curtains," she said, moving to the window to look out over the bedazzling light show of the Las Vegas Strip, "and our bedrooms, or at least mine, is opposite of yours. I have navy carpeting and gold bedding."

Steve took one look around and saw the burgundy walls and green drapes and knew exactly what she was talking about. "I wonder if all the rooms on that side of the hotel are opposites of these."

"Probably," she mused, "and I can just imagine some anal-retentive decorator with a color wheel trying to design a gradient pattern throughout the hotel. If you watch when the elevator doors open for the different floors, the walls run progressively through every shade of the rainbow."

Crossing the room to stand closer to her, Steve said teasingly, "Those impressive powers of observation will take you far in the FBI, Agent Wakeley."

Kathryn smiled slightly and moved away from him to go sit on the burgundy, gold, and green sofa in the middle of the lounge where she tucked her feet up under her and began to page indolently through an advertising brochure that had been left on the coffee table.

Steve turned to face her, more certain than ever that something had gone awry and he hadn't even seen it happen. Needing some time to decide how to bridge the gap that seemed to have formed between them, he moved to the complimentary bar and fixed her favorite drink, a vodka gimlet, and prepared a Tom Collins for himself. Then he went over and sat beside her, pulling the brochure gently from her hands, and asked, "Is there something we need to talk about? I really get the feeling there is."

Her eyes, when she looked at him were so sad that he was frightened there might be something seriously wrong. She sipped her drink for a moment, then put it carefully on the coffee table, turned to face him once again and asked, "Have you ever thought of settling down?"

Steve couldn't contain the small burst of soft laughter, a mixture of surprise and relief that escaped with his words. "What? With you?"

When Kathryn didn't reply right away, he began to get that awful, awkward feeling that he had just done something really, really stupid. "I mean . . . uh . . . that is . . . "

Kathryn smiled slightly, enjoying his discomfort. "Relax. I meant with anyone, at all, ever. There might have been a chance for us once, but that time has passed. With you in L.A. and me in D.C., I know better than to think these annual," she cleared her throat slightly, ". . . affairs are anything more substantial than two lonely people having a good time together."

"There's no need to make us sound so desperate," Steve replied, deeply disturbed by the tone the conversation had taken on.

"Are you going to tell me we're not?" she asked. "I just turned forty this year. I have one miserably failed marriage behind me, and the most meaningful relationship I have had since then is with a guy I see once or twice a year if I am lucky."

Steve frowned, not sure whether to be flattered or insulted, not even entirely sure she was talking about him. He'd had other, much more significant relationships between his meetings with Kathryn, and he was frankly surprised that she hadn't. Before his brain could form a coherent thought and relay it to his lips, Kathryn was speaking again, so he just stayed quiet and listened.

"Look, Steve," she began carefully, "what happened when we met, well, you know I was just trying to hurt him. That's why I let him find us together. I didn't expect to like you as much as I did, and I certainly didn't expect you to really care about me. I thought it would be a one-, well, a three-night stand, and that would be it."

"I know, Kathryn, but I thought we had resolved all that ages ago," Steve said sounding confused. "Why are you rehashing it now?"

"Have you ever seen a neglected dog, Steve?" she asked, and he just frowned, unsure of where she was going, hoping he hadn't unwittingly done something to hurt her.

Oblivious to his lack of an answer, she just continued talking. "I'm talking about one of those bony creatures where you can see every rib and vertebra, the protruding hips and sunken belly, like the people who own it don't even feed it enough to keep it alive, Steve, just enough to prolong its misery."

"Kathryn, please," he interrupted anxiously. "If it's something I've done, tell me, I'll make it right if I can."

She shook her head. "You can't," she said, "because it's nothing you've done wrong, it's just the way I feel every time we part."

"Kathryn, I'm sorry. If I had known . . . "

"What? You'd have avoided me?" She shook her head. "No, Steve, you wouldn't have done that, and I wouldn't have wanted you to. You might not realize this, but you saved me when my marriage fell apart. I know I was wrong to use you the way I did, and you had every right to hate me. I suppose you did for a while, but you gave me hope, too, hope that not every guy was a jerk like my ex-husband, hope that there was someone decent and caring and . . . and chivalrous out there for me."

"Wow," Steve said, feeling deeply flattered, "I really had no idea. If you had just said something years ago, maybe . . . "

"Don't say it, Steve," she cut him off yet again, and this time, her eyes welled with tears. Crossing the room to look out the window once more, she said, "You never could have left your father and friends for me, and I never would have stayed there just for you, so let's not pretend things could have been different."

"Ok," Steve nodded his assent and stood to face her when she turned toward him again, "then what are we doing here?"

"I'm here to tell you that we won't be . . . doing . . . what we usually do when we get together at functions like this." She took a couple of steps toward him and said, "I felt I owed it to you to tell you in person."

"I see." He looked down at his hands for a moment; they were clenched in fists. It was surprising to him how disappointed he felt, and he suddenly realized that he would miss her. He swallowed hard, not sure he could trust his voice. "May I ask why . . . you felt you needed to . . . end this?"

Smiling tremulously, she said, "I've found someone."

Steve smiled back. "I'm happy for you," he said insincerely. What he really wanted to say was,_ I wish things could have been different. We could have made a great couple, you and I._ "What's he like?"

Kathryn's smile broadened, but her eyes didn't sparkle. There was a small chuckle in her voice when she spoke. "He's nothing like you, actually, he's kind of twitchy and a little neurotic, must have six locks on his door, and makes me take the bullets out of my gun before I come into his house, but Winnie's still a good guy, and he treats me well, and he's there."

"That's good," he told her. "You deserve it." He was somber for a moment, feeling sad and knowing he was going to miss her a great deal, but then her words sank in and he spluttered with laughter. "Did you say Winnie, as in the Pooh?"

"It's short for Wincel, which is an old family name going back to England."

"I suppose it would have to be," Steve choked, struggling to contain his laughter. "I can see why he prefers Winnie!"

Kathryn was smiling too, despite the tears in her eyes, and she said, "I admit it is a strange name, but that's ok. He really is a good man, and he loves me, and, well, like I said, he's there. Every day when I get home, he's there, and he's happy to see me."

Steve took a deep breath and put his feelings aside for a moment. He could feel sorry for himself later, but right now, Kathryn needed to know she was doing the right thing, and though he hated to admit it, she was right about their relationship. In the face of someone who would be there for her every day, what he had shared with her, at a couple of conferences a year and the chance encounter when their cases overlapped, was little better than a one-night-stand.

Crossing the room, he put his arms around her, placed a kiss on the top of her head, and said, "I really am very happy for you, and I wish you both the best."

She smiled up at him, caressed his face, brushed the hair from his eyes, and said, "Thank you, Steve. Thank you for understanding." She gave him a peck on the cheek, moved away from him, and said in a voice rough with emotion, "I think I'm going to go now. I'll see you at breakfast."

Steve nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He watched as Kathryn saw herself out of the suite, and then turned to the window to look out over the Vegas strip, gasping in pain, though he wasn't sure if it was from the sudden loss he felt so keenly or his strained back muscle cramping again.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

Steve groaned softly as he lay in bed and stretched in an effort to ease the cramping in his back and right side. The clock beside his bed read three twenty eight in the morning. As much as he wanted to ignore his discomfort, or at least find some rational way to write it off to the pain of being dumped by Kathryn Wakeley, he knew his misery had become something of a habit over the past twenty-four hours and that it had begun long before he had spoken with the sexy FBI agent. Just the thought of the overwhelming nausea he had endured three times already this evening suddenly had him retching again, and he scrambled out of bed and toward the bathroom attached to his sleeping quarters.

No sooner had his bare feet hit the thick, plush carpet than the floor began to heave and roll as the room spun wildly out of control, and he knew he was in trouble. He lurched across the room, using the back of a chair and then the dresser for support, and, barely swallowing down the nausea, he opened the door to the common room of the suite and called out for his partner. As her name left his lips, his knees gave out, he collapsed to the floor and was violently sick right where he lay. Then everything went dark.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

A voice, vaguely familiar, "The ambulance should be here in about five minutes. Is there anything else I can do?"

Steve swallowed hard.

"Give me that wastebasket. I think he's gonna be sick again."

Steve opened his eyes to look into Cheryl's worried face, and as Danny, the casino host, shoved the can into her hands, he propped himself up on one elbow. The container was set in place beside him, and, abandoning his dignity, he leaned over and heaved. For several seconds, the waves of nausea came strong and fast, engulfing his entire body, until they finally left him, sweaty, shaken, and short of breath.

"Cheryl," he said softly, closing his eyes as he tried to bring his breathing under control, and the one word implied a world of gratitude, relief, friendship, and trust.

"Shhh," she soothed him as she brushed his hair out of his eyes, "It's ok, Partner. Help is on the way."

Not wanting to be found lying there on the floor, Steve started to get up. Seeing his intentions, Cheryl and Danny each took an arm and helped him to his feet. Without argument, he let them lead him over to the couch in the common room, and didn't protest as Cheryl gently pushed him back against the cushions and lifted his feet. Instinctively, he turned over on his side, just in case he should be sick again.

Closing his eyes and resisting the urge to moan in pain, he gasped instead, "What's wrong with me?"

"I don't know, Steve, but we'll find out and get it fixed," she promised him calmly. "I knew I should have made you see a doctor as soon as we landed."

"As soon as you landed?" Danny repeated inquisitively.

"Yeah, he was sick on the plane."

Steve could hear the man breathe a sigh of relief, and he opened his eyes slightly. "That's right, and a couple of times last night. You can relax, it's not the hotel's buffet."

"Oh, that's great!" the young man blurted enthusiastically, "I mean, not that you were sick earlier, but that . . . I mean . . ."

Steve chuckled and then winced slightly as his sore ribs protested. "It's ok," he told the casino host as his partner handed him a glass of cool, clear water to rinse his mouth with, "I own a restaurant, and I understand your concern."

Cheryl looked over her shoulder at Danny and said, "Do you think you could go outside and wait for the ambulance, make sure they find their way here?"

Nodding nervously, he walked away without another word.

"Thanks," Steve said, handing his glass back to Cheryl, "he was making me edgy." He tried to sit up, but she pushed him gently back down to the sofa.

"Not so fast there, Partner," she admonished him. "At the least, I think you are dehydrated, and at worst, well, I don't want to think about the worst, so you just lie there and wait for the ambulance, ok?"

Steve didn't have enough fight left in him to object, so he nodded his assent and settled quietly back onto the couch.

"Ok, now, tell me what I can do to make you feel more comfortable," Cheryl commanded.

"You mean that? Really?" Steve asked, a little surprised that she would offer after the way he had inconvenienced and worried her.

"Yes, of course I mean it!" she said adamantly, "Now, what can I do?"

"Well," Steve began, almost reluctantly, "my back is killing me, and I wouldn't ask, except that I think it's part of the reason I feel so queasy. Could you just sort of rub my back?"

Cheryl sat on the couch beside him, in the curved space formed by his curled up body, and rubbed gentle circles on his back, concentrating her efforts where he instructed, and that was how they passed the time until the ambulance attendants arrived.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

"Ok, rookie, sock it to me," the grizzled old veteran paramedic, whose name badge read Jon, commanded as he set up a gurney beside the couch where Steve was resting.

"Patient is alert, coherent, and cooperative," the impossibly young woman with a bouncy blonde ponytail replied. Her badge, just a label stuck on a plastic backing instead of the engraved metal plate that Jon wore, read Sarah. "BP is a little low, and he shows signs of mild to moderate dehydration. Pulse, respiration, and temp are all a little high, and he is complaining of nausea, vomiting, and severe pain in the upper right quadrant of the abdomen, radiating through and around to the back. Symptoms have persisted for at least twenty-four hours, with no indication or complaint of loose stools or diarrhea. There is a history of multiple abdominal procedures, but nothing within the past year. No allergies or medications, except for some aspirin before noon. Last meal was at about nine p.m."

"What protocol do you recommend, rookie?"

Five minutes ago, when she was professionally assessing his condition and taking his medical history, Steve had felt completely comfortable under this woman's care. Now that he was being used as a teaching case, he looked at Cheryl desperately and pleaded with his eyes for her to rescue him from this child.

The young EMT looked up and said, "Saline IV to hydrate and morphine for the pain. Transport supine with knees flexed and an emesis bag handy."

Her supervisor nodded and asked, "What about O2?"

She shook her head as she set up her IV. "He doesn't seem to be in respiratory distress," she said, "and the cannula could just be in the way if he needs to be sick again."

Steve tensed slightly as he felt a needle slide into his skin, and he watched with some apprehension as the paramedic, a big bear of a man, prepared a hypodermic.

"Probable cause?"

"My job is to stabilize and transport," the girl said. "It's up to the doctors to diagnose."

Her boss' face split into a grin, and he said, "Good answer, rookie. Let's get it done, then."

"Would you please stop talking about me like I'm not in the room?" Steve finally demanded. "And you," he continued, looking at the supervisor, "you should consider calling her by name. It doesn't help me any to know she is a rookie."

The paramedic was surprisingly gentle for a man of his bulk as he slid his needle into the IV port injected the morphine into Steve's system. With a confident smile, he said, "I'm sorry, sir, you're right, but rest assured, Sarah here is one of the best EMTs I have had the pleasure of working with. She is new, and a little young, but she knows her stuff and keeps her wits about her. You're in good hands."

The morphine was already taking effect, and Steve was able to smile slightly. "Uh, thanks. Now what?"

Sarah moved over to him and asked, "Can you move onto the gurney, or do you need some help?"

"I . . . I think I can make it. I just feel a little dizzy. Maybe if you could help me keep my balance?"

She shook her head. "Sorry, but if you're afraid you'll fall, I'd rather not have you standing at all. Jon will get your shoulders and I'll take your legs and . . . "

"No, no, wait, please," Steve objected, but by the time the words had left his mouth, the EMT and the paramedic had crossed his arms in his lap and lifted him effortlessly from the couch to the gurney.

"See," Sarah said encouragingly, "that wasn't such a big deal." She bent his knees, which slightly eased the pain in his back, and drew the strap across his chest to prevent him from sliding off the gurney, and then she and Jon lifted the gurney and locked the legs in place.

"Cheryl?" he called as they turned him and moved toward the door.

"I'm here," she said soothingly as she came into view, "I'll follow in our rental car and see you at the hospital."

"Ok, and thanks."

"Not a problem, Partner," she reassured him.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

Cheryl sat quietly on the stool in the curtained off ER cubicle in the Desert Springs Hospital, just a mile from the hotel and watched her partner doze peacefully. She had seen Steve get hurt on the job a number of times, and once, following a wreck during a car chase, he had been deliberately infected with a virulent form of staph, but she had never seen him get suddenly and violently ill for no apparent reason, and it had frightened her. Worse yet, it had frightened him. She knew he was scared, she had seen it in his eyes. So, after she had helped the admissions counselor complete as much of Steve's paperwork as she could, she had stubbornly stood in the doorway and demanded to be taken to her good friend's bedside.

Steve began to rouse, he moaned faintly and shifted position. Cheryl moved to be closer to him, and she could tell the moment he knew he was not alone because his expression instantly became more guarded. He opened one eye just a slit, and when he saw who was with him, he gave her a sleepy, grateful smile and said, "Hi."

"Hey, Partner," she said softly. "How are you?"

"Well, I don't hurt anymore," he said thoughtfully as he assessed his condition, "As soon as I got here, they drew some blood and gave me something to stop the nausea. Mostly I just want to sleep now." Frowning, he added, "What time is it?"

"About quarter past five."

"In the morning?" Steve gasped in surprise. "Cheryl, you shouldn't be here! You should have gone back to the hotel and gotten some sleep. Breakfast is in two hours and the meetings start at eight! Didn't you read your schedule?"

"Oh, be quiet," she commanded him, keeping her voice light while still demanding that he respect her wishes. "I told you I would see you at the hospital, and I promised your dad that I would look after you. He'd have my head if he thought I had left you all alone in a strange hospital with strange doctors and nurses."

"You haven't called him, have you?"

She shook her head. "Not yet. The doctors are concerned, but they keep checking in and saying you're stable, so I decided that it would be better to wait until you could talk to him yourself, that way he wouldn't worry so much."

With a relieved sight, Steve thanked her, and then asked, "Has the doctor mentioned to you what he thought was wrong? I . . . uh . . . can't recall if he told me or not."

Cheryl nodded. "They think it's your gallbladder. Doctor . . ." she picked up the chart at the foot of the gurney, "Shauhnuk?" she shrugged her shoulders to indicate she wasn't sure of her pronunciation, ". . . has ordered an ultrasound, but he is waiting until you get the whole IV in you so that you're properly hydrated. He also said it works better on an empty stomach, and I told him that your stomach was probably empty before the ambulance arrived, but he wanted to wait a few hours, just to be sure. I'm sure he'll be back in any second now to check on you. He's been coming by about every fifteen minutes."

He nodded, accepting her information thoughtfully.

She smiled down at him for a moment. He looked so pale on the white gurney, covered by nothing but a thin gown and a sheet. There were dark circles under his eyes, a thin sheen of perspiration on his sallow skin, his hair was a mess, and he had a look about him that she had never seen before. He looked scared, and that frightened her.

"Is there anything I can get for you?" she asked, hoping that doing something for him would make her feel better.

Steve shrugged. "Well, I _am_ kinda cold," he said. "Do you think you could find me a blanket?"

Cheryl looked around the cubicle, and then started searching the cabinets that were along the wall behind the gurney. She would go get a nurse if she had to, but she really didn't want to leave Steve alone if she could help it. She knew he had spent more than his fair share of time in and out of the hospital, but it had to be different, more intimidating, when it wasn't _his_ hospital. In one of the cabinets, she found a white cotton, knitted blanket. She shook it out and draped it over him.

"Better?" she asked after a minute or so.

Steve snuggled down and nodded. "Much better. Thanks." After a few more moments of silence, he sighed and said, "This is none of my business, but you should probably know that Amanda and Ron were pretty serious at one time."

Cheryl nodded. "You're right, it is none of your business, but thanks for the info. I will use it judiciously."

Steve looked up at her regretfully and said, "I'm sorry I ruined this trip for you."

"Hey, Steve, it's not your fault, so don't beat yourself up about it," she reassured him. "Anyone can get sick."

He looked up at her and nodded slightly again. He seemed so wretchedly miserable that she couldn't just sit there beside him. It wasn't enough. Reaching out, she placed a gentle hand on his arm and squeezed, needing to comfort him as much as he seemed to need comforting. He placed his other hand over hers, and gave her a worried, grateful smile, and they waited together for Doctor Shauhnuk to come check on him again.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

"Well, Mr. Sloan," Doctor Shauhnuk began in his accented English that made every sentence sound like a question, "it would appear that you will need surgery sooner, rather than later." Steve's attending physician was a distinguished man in his middle forties with chrome-framed glasses and salt and pepper hair that had once been jet black.

"Surgery?" Steve parroted, sounding aghast.

"Why?" Cheryl blurted at the same time.

The doctor held up one of Steve's ultrasound images and, with the capped end of his pen, indicated several areas of solid, opaque gray.

"These are gallstones," he said. Pointing to one in particular, he added, "This one is lodged in the bile duct, and judging by your temperature and blood tests, it is causing an infection. It is too large to pass on its own without damaging the duct, so it must be removed. Since more are waiting to take its place, the best thing we can do for you is to remove your gall bladder. It is a routine endoscopic procedure and we have an excellent surgeon on call, so it is nothing to worry about. You will have only four small scars."

He handed Steve a form and said very politely, "If you would please sign here, we can do it right away."

"Hold on a minute here!" Steve nearly shouted as he shrugged off Cheryl's restraining hand and tried to sit up on the gurney. "I want a second opinion!" Then he realized that the doctor was not lacking in compassion. The man probably just didn't have much tact because English was not his native tongue, and he didn't have the words to soften the blow of such a diagnosis.

"Please, my father is a doctor," he explained more calmly, "and while I don't mistrust you, I would like his advice about this, just because he knows more about my medical history than you do. If I gave you his e-mail address, could you send the images to him?"

"Of course I could, Mr. Sloan, but he will tell you the same thing. I know he will because it is exactly what I would tell my son."

Steve smiled. "I appreciate that," he replied, liking Doctor Shauhnuk more by the minute, "but I am also sure you would understand his need to hear that advice from his own dad rather than from a stranger he only just met a few hours ago."

The doctor nodded. "But of course." He took a pad and pen out of his pocket and handed it to his patient. "Write down your father's e-mail and I will have these images sent to him."

When Steve handed him back the small tablet, the doctor read back, "m. right. Can I call him, to let him know it's coming?"

"Certainly." When he handed his patient the handset to the phone on the wall, Steve began to rise as if he was going to move over to the stool beside it, but Doctor Shauhnuk placed a hand in the center of his chest. "You stay here. She dials."

Turning to Cheryl, he added, "Press nine to get an outside line."

Cheryl smiled and nodded and turned to ask Steve, "Your house or Community General?"


	3. Fateful Encounter

**Chapter Three: **Fateful Encounter

"Ok, here they are," Mark said as the images finally came up on his computer screen at the beach house. Steve had wisely reversed the charges, knowing that it would be cheaper than paying the long distance calling fees that would appear on his hospital bill.

"Well, what do you think?" Steve asked, and Mark felt his chest tighten at the nervous tone of his son's voice. Steve could cope with gunshot wounds, beatings, and other insults to the body; injuries came with the territory when one was a cop. But ever since his mother's death, Steve had found it difficult to confront illness, especially his own, and, as he had so recently proven, would, if he were allowed, ignore, rationalize, and explain away any symptoms until he keeled over and could no longer deny that he was sick.

Mark took a deep breath, knowing that his advice would not be well received, and said, "I think you should have the surgery immediately."

"_Da-ad!_" Steve cringed as he heard the adolescent whine coming from his own mouth, and not wanting to sound even more childish, he fell silent until he could trust his voice again. "Can't I just cancel the trip, get on the next flight home, and let you and Jesse take care of me?"

"Really now, Steve . . ." Mark began kindly, but he was cut off.

"I know, I know," Steve interrupted, "that was a stupid question. It's just . . . ." He rolled his eyes as if searching the room for the right words, and his glance fell on Cheryl. Instantly, he knew that he could never say what he was really feeling with her in the room, so he pressed his lips into a hard line instead.

Cheryl, somehow sensing that her presence had become a roadblock, put a gentle hand on her partner's shoulder and said, "I'm gonna have a cup of coffee. You talk as long as you like. I'll be back before they take you up."

Steve nodded and tried to give her a grateful smile, but it just wasn't in him.

"Son? Are you still there? Steve?" Mark's voice wasn't very loud in the phone, but the worried tone broke through, and Steve replied.

"Yeah, Dad, I'm here," he said softly.

"I've looked through everything now, and it all confirms what I suspected when I first saw the images, Son," Mark began, knowing from Steve's subdued tone that he needed some time to collect himself. "You're feverish, and your white count is up, which means you have the beginnings of an infection."

"Yeah, Doctor Shauhnuk told me that already."

"Waiting is only going to increase the risk, Son," Mark explained gently. "If we had caught it earlier, we might have been able to break up the gall stones with sonic waves or gotten you on some medication, but like the majority of people, you didn't have any symptoms until it was too late for non-surgical intervention. The sooner you act on this, the better, and at this point your only viable option is surgery."

"I know . . . it's just . . . I'm just . . . "

Mark let the silence hang a little while, but when Steve didn't feel compelled to fill it, he finally said, "You'll feel better if you say it, Son."

Steve sighed. "I'm just scared," he practically whispered into the phone.

"Well, your body isn't functioning as it is supposed to," Mark told him reassuringly. "That is a scary thing. The surgery will fix that."

"I know," Steve said resignedly, "but . . . Dad, what will it be like when this is over? Will I have to stop being a cop?"

"No, Steve, the gall bladder isn't a necessary organ. It just stores bile, the enzyme that starts the process of digesting fat."

Mark could have kicked himself; Steve was soon going to be missing an organ after all. Naturally, he would be worried about how that would affect his career. "As soon as it is out, the pain will be gone. The nausea should disappear when the anesthetic wears off. After that, results can vary. The pain and nausea shouldn't come back, but some people have other problems with fatty foods."

"Other problems?"

Mark sighed, wishing he could avoid answering, knowing it would be one more thing to worry Steve, even though it was nothing he would need to worry about for at least a few weeks.

Finally, he said bluntly, "They could go right through you and come out in a rather loud and disgusting manner." Wanting to qualify his statement, he added, "Then again, there are people who go right back to eating what they used to, never giving it a second thought, and never having a problem again. It's a very individual thing, but it's nothing that can't be avoided. You would just have to change your diet a bit."

"I see," was Steve's quiet reply.

"Son, you're going to be fine," Mark said into the growing silence.

"I know," Steve agreed reluctantly. "I just wish you were here."

"So do I, Son, and with any luck, I will be, by the time you wake up."

"Really?"

"Really." Mark had to smile at Steve's relieved tone. Sometimes he was concerned that his son was too dependent on him, but at times like this, knowing that just the thought of his presence could bring Steve some comfort gave him tremendous satisfaction. "Now, do you think you can go through with this, or do you need to talk some more?"

"Can't I just wait until you get here?" Steve knew he was being childish, but he had to ask anyway. Besides, he already knew what the answer would be.

"Oh, Steve," Mark said sympathetically, "by then the morphine and Compazine will have worn off and you'll be sick and hurting again. Just let them take care of you, and by the time I get there, you will be feeling a little better."

After a tremendous sigh, Steve said, "Ok."

Mark nearly chuckled at the reluctantly resigned tone and he could almost see Steve rolling his eyes as he spoke. Try as he might to maintain his dignity and maturity, whenever he was sick or recuperating from an injury, Steve reverted to his teenage self. "Now, why don't you just relax for a little while and put Cheryl on, then she can get Doctor Shauhnuk to bring you the release papers."

"I would but she left a couple of minutes ago to get some coffee," Steve began, "but here she is now," he continued on immediately as she stepped around the curtain. He couldn't help but notice that she wasn't carrying a coffee cup. He raised his brows and she shrugged, knowing she'd been caught and held out her hand for the telephone.

"Hi again, Mark."

"Thanks for looking out for him, Cheryl," Mark said immediately. "I knew he looked a little off when the two of you left yesterday morning, but I had no idea this would happen. I'm really grateful to you."

Cheryl chuckled slightly. "All part of the service," she assured him.

"I know, and I appreciate it. He's lucky to have you there."

"Just remember to tell him that when you get here, would you?"

"I'll do that," Mark replied. "Let me say goodbye to him, ok?"

Taking the phone back from his partner, Steve said, "You know, I really don't like it when people discuss me as if I am not in the room."

"Well, it has happened before and it will probably happen again, so I guess you will just have to learn to deal with it," Mark told him. "I'll see you soon. I've already booked a flight online while we have been talking and I need to go pack now. I love you, Son."

There was a slight hesitation, and Mark knew his son was uncomfortable speaking about his emotions in front of Cheryl, but then he heard an intake of breath, and with surprising intensity, Steve replied, "I love you, too, Dad. You know that, right?"

Surprised that there could be any doubt, Mark responded immediately, "Of course I do, Steve!" Not sure whether to say more on the subject, he quickly decided to give some encouraging advice instead. "Now you just relax, sign the release forms, and let the people there take care of you. You'll be feeling better before you know it."

"Ok, Dad, and thanks. See you soon."

"Bye, Son."

For a moment, Mark stared at the phone, wondering about his son's strange question, but then, deciding that the prospect of immediate surgery, even one as routine as a cholecystectomy would put anyone in an odd frame of mind, he hung up and went to his bedroom to pack.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

As he looked down at his next patient sent up from the emergency room, Wil Erickson had to take a deep breath to steady his suddenly jangled nerves. When he had taken the job as a general surgeon at Desert Springs Hospital, he had never in his wildest dreams imagined that he would simply luck into this opportunity for revenge. He couldn't quite stifle a chuckle as he realized that fortune alone had brought Steve Sloan to him in Las Vegas, of all places.

"Doctor?" his scrub nurse said questioningly.

"It's nothing, Maxine," he said as she helped him don his gloves, "just a random thought." With that, he stepped toward his patient, and for the next two hours, not a word was spoken outside of what was necessary to complete the procedure.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

It was nearly nine o'clock when Mark walked up to the administrative desk outside the relatives' waiting room and smiled affably when the nurse, whose name badge said Kellie, looked up at him. "Could you please tell me what room my son is in? It seems the last record the admitting desk has of him was when he was sent up for surgery. His name is Steve Sloan."

The woman nodded, smiled back, and tapped at her keyboard for a moment, then frowning, she said, "He is still in surgery, sir. If you want to have a seat in the waiting room, someone will come get you when the procedure is finished."

With a sudden sense of dread pervading him, Mark told her, "That can't be right. I talked with him from LA three hours ago. He was going to be brought right up for an emergency cholecystectomy. That shouldn't have taken more than an hour."

When the young woman gave him a dubious look, he said, "I'm a doctor myself. It's my job to know these things."

With a nod she asked, "Would you like me to place a call to the OR and find out what is taking so long?"

"Please do," Mark said, trying to hide his sudden, desperate worry. He paced uneasily as she moved to the other end of the desk and picked up a telephone. As she conversed in low tones with the person at the other end of the line, Mark contemplated all the things that could go wrong during a routine procedure and each imagined scenario was worse than the one before. By the time Kellie hung up the phone and came back to him, he was ready to go into the OR and see to his son himself.

"Well," he said impatiently as she came back to his end of the desk, "what's wrong? Why is it taking so long?"

Kellie gave him a gentle, sympathetic smile and said, "I'm to tell you not to worry. Your son has some adhesions from a previous abdominal procedure that are making for some slow going. Doctor Erickson has opted to stay with the laparoscopic procedure, but it will take somewhat longer than usual."

Mark felt his head swim, and he grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself. "Of course, I should have realized that. Thank you."

He stood there another moment, breathing deeply until he had gathered himself, and then with a slightly shaky smile, nodded goodbye to Kellie and went into the waiting room across the hall.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

Wil smiled to himself as he removed his surgical gloves, gown, cap, and mask before going out to speak with his patient's father. Knowing that Mark Sloan would insist on personally investigating if anything happened to his son in the OR, Wil had managed to resist the urge to exact his revenge during the surgery. In the coming days, there would be other opportunities to make the father and son suffer, and unlike a mishap in the OR, they would not be likely to bring suspicion on him.

Wil paused for a minute in front of the mirror the surgeons used to make sure they weren't too badly blood-spattered before speaking with worried relatives and grinned with satisfaction. The middle-aged surgeon with the strong jaw line, close-trimmed beard, golden tan, and thick head of graying brown hair was a far cry from the man the Sloans had put in jail ten years before. His new look had cost him thousands of dollars, and required several cosmetic surgeries and countless hours at the gym. His new credentials and the false references to back them up had cost even more. His new voice had come only after months of practice, but even that was now as natural to him as his own heartbeat. Mark Sloan would never recognize him. He eagerly went out into the hall and down to the waiting room.

"Steve Sloan?" Wil called, and looked around as if he didn't know his patient's father on sight.

"That's my son," Mark replied, and he and Cheryl, who had been in the waiting room when he arrived, moved over toward the surgeon.

"Wil Erickson, I operated on Steve," the doctor introduced himself as the older, silver-haired man came over and shook his hand, and he watched carefully to see if there was any reaction to indicate that his nemesis recognized him on some level. He remembered the woman cop from LA, but didn't think there was any way she would see through his disguise. His only concern was getting by Mark Sloan. The man was prone to unexpected insights that spelled doom for anyone he went after, and if there were even a hint of familiarity, Wil would have to make himself scarce.

"Please, Doctor Erickson, I'm a doctor, too, how is he? Were there any complications? Just tell me."

Wil nodded in acknowledgement and, knowing that Detective Sloan's partner would follow none of it, gave a very dry account of what had transpired in the OR.

"We made our incisions, filled the abdomen with CO2, and used the laparoscope to visualize the gallbladder," Wil explained. "He had some adhesions from previous surgery, but a cholangiogram showed no indication of Mirizzi's syndrome, so I decided to continue with the laparoscopic procedure. Except for having to take special care going through and around the scar tissue, it was a textbook case. He'll be just fine, and you can see him as soon as he is in a room."

Mark breathed a deep sigh, almost deflating himself with relief. "I don't suppose I could see him right now, could I? I mean while he's in recovery, as sort of a professional courtesy?"

Wil knew the old man would hate pleading like that, even for his son, and it delighted him to hear it. Still, he couldn't resist torturing him a bit more.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Sloan, even as a professional courtesy it would be against hospital policy. I'll make sure someone comes to get you as soon as your son is in a room, though."

Disappointed, Mark nodded slightly and said, "Yes, all right. Well, thank you, Doctor Erickson, I'll see you later, I hope."

"I'll certainly stop by before he is discharged."

"Yes, of course you will," Mark agreed. "What was I thinking?"

As Steve's surgeon disappeared down the hall, Cheryl put an arm around Mark's shoulders and guided him back to a seat. "Come on, Mark, you can translate what he said into English for me while we wait."

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

When Steve finally came to properly after his operation, he looked immediately to his right and smiled to find that he hadn't been hallucinating his father's presence after all. As he'd been drifting toward consciousness, he'd vaguely recollected coming round a couple times only to be told to go back to sleep, and while he appreciated Cheryl's continuing presence, he felt hugely relieved to know now that his dad was, and had been, there for him. After a couple of deep breaths, he said softly, "Hey."

Mark started slightly as the croaky voice drew him out of his reverie, and then he moved immediately to his son's side. "Hey, yourself. How are you feeling?"

Steve swallowed, and then made a face as he realized he could still feel the ghost of the respirator tube that had been down his throat during the surgery. He licked parched lips with a dry tongue, and discovering that it did no good, he finally replied, "Thirsty. Can I have a drink of water?"

"I think so," Mark told him. "Let me check your chart."

Moving to the foot of the bed, Mark read Doctor Erickson's orders for his son. He noted the kind, frequency, and quantity of pain medication and antibiotics that had been prescribed, the concentration of the IV drip that was working its way into his veins, and the directions for checking and maintaining the surgical wounds and the drainage tube that Steve had not discovered yet.

As she read not-too-discretely over Mark's shoulder, Cheryl was surprised that she could actually read the surgeon's signature. She grunted and grinned to herself, "Huh, Wilfred. No wonder he prefers Wil."

Mark looked at her askance, and she shrugged. "I would have thought it was a woman's name."

"Not as bad as Winnie," Steve said hoarsely.

"Winnie? As in the Pooh?" Cheryl laughed. "Steve what are you talking about?"

"Kathryn's new man," he replied. "It's short for, get this, Wincel."

Cheryl frowned slightly and then nodded knowingly. "I see why he prefers Winnie."

"Me, too," Steve agreed with a small smile, grateful to her for not dwelling on his latest lost love.

Ignoring their conversation and turning to his son again, Mark said, "I think you should be able to have a drink by now. The chart doesn't say you can't." He went to the bedside stand and picked up the cup and the straw that were there for Steve's use, filled the cup at the sink, and held the straw to Steve's lips. "Just take it easy for now. Small sips."

Having soothed his dry mouth for the moment, Steve fiddled with the buttons on the bedrail until he found the one that raised him to a sitting position, then looked over to Cheryl and asked, "What time is it?"

"Almost noon," she replied.

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Steve!" Mark snapped, shocked by his son's rudeness.

Steve looked sheepish, and Cheryl chuckled. "It's all right, Doctor Sloan. Your son and I have had this conversation once already today. He's concerned that he has ruined this trip for me and wants me to go back to the conference so I don't waste any more of my time or the department's money on him."

She moved over to Steve and placed a hand on his shoulder. Smiling down at him, she said, "You get some rest. I'll see if I can buy a deck of cards in the hotel gift shop and maybe I can get Ron and Kathryn to come visit this evening and we'll play some poker."

He gave her a sleepy, lopsided grin and, remembering how badly he had beaten her, Jesse, and anyone else who'd been foolish enough to play against him the time he'd been in the hospital with an injured knee, he said, "Save your money for the casino, but I would appreciate the company any time you care to stop by. It will give Dad a break."

Cheryl nodded. "I'll see you this evening, then. Doctor Sloan, give me a call at the hotel if there is anything you need. I'll check my messages before I come over."

"Oh, I'm sure your company will be appreciated," Mark said to Cheryl, "but I won't need any relief, and if you wouldn't mind going into Steve's room and finding him a set of comfortable, loose-fitting clothes, that would be great. He'll probably be checking out tomorrow."

"What?" The question came in unison from both the patient and the departing visitor.

Mark grinned at Cheryl's surprise and chuckled at his son. "Why, Steve, any other time, you would be raring to go as soon as possible. Why so reluctant this one occasion when you are supposed to recover quickly?"

"But, Dad," Steve said in shock, "they took parts out. How can I go home so soon after that?"

"The biggest inconvenience of gall bladder removal used to be the surgical wounds, Steve," Mark explained. "Before the advent of the laparoscopic procedure abdominal muscles had to be cut and recovery took at least six weeks. With the scope, that isn't a problem anymore, and as long as there are no complications, patients can leave the hospital after twenty-four hours. Your drainage tube will be removed by the end of the week, and, barring any complications, you'll be back at your desk in two weeks, and back to your regular duties in about a month."

"That's amazing," Cheryl said.

"Drainage tube?" Steve echoed as he lifted his blankets. He spied the tube of bright red fluid snaking its way out from under his hospital gown and gently prodded his abdomen through the thin material. When he realized that the tube was protruding through a hole in his side, he blanched several shades paler and sank weakly back against his pillows.

Cheryl looked concerned, but Mark smiled innocently and shrugged, so she said her goodbyes, gave her partner a peck on the cheek and left.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

"Have you tried talking to his school custodian?" Mark asked as Ron anted up for another hand of five-card draw. As usual, Steve was beating him badly. Steve was also beating Kathryn and Cheryl, and Mark had been the only one with sense enough not to join in. His son had an undeniable knack for reading people's tells, the little signals they unwillingly gave away that showed what kind of hand they were holding, and Mark was content to sit in the chair in the corner and look through the file Ron had brought by to show him.

Ron frowned, whether at his cards or at Mark's suggestion, it was hard to tell. "What would the janitor know?" he asked as he tossed a quarter into the pot for his first bet.

Though he would never admit it to his superiors, the intense FBI agent valued the insights he could get from the old doctor, despite the fact that he was only a civilian consultant to a local police force. He occasionally consulted Mark by sending his files through e-mail, and since circumstances had brought them together in Vegas, he was more than happy to hand over the file in person for an hour or two.

Mark hid a grin, the low bet was one of Ron's tells. The only time he would ever just see the previous bet this late in the game was when was holding something good. If his hand had only been playable, instead of excellent, he would have at least doubled the bet; and if it was lousy, he would have folded. He wanted to make the other players _think_ his hand was lousy so they would be overconfident and bet big, trying to force him to fold. His plan was to make them put in as much money as he could and then walk away with the pot. Mark suspected he was holding three of a kind.

"A kid like this," Mark indicated the folder as if there was any doubt who he was talking about, "he doesn't graduate high school unless someone takes an interest in him. Given his discipline record and grades, it clearly wasn't one of the faculty or the administration, so it must have been a member of the support staff, a custodian, groundskeeper, computer maintenance person, someone like that."

"Come on, Wagner, talk or play," Steve goaded him. "How many cards?"

Ron tossed down two cards and asked for two more. Mark hid another grin. Ron almost certainly was holding three of a kind.

"Are you sure about that?" Steve asked, taunting him. The last time he had taken two cards, the two Steve had dealt him would have gone with the two he had thrown away to give him two pair, and he had been left wondering why he hadn't thrown out two other cards in his hand when he had been holding nothing of value anyway.

"Yes, I'm sure," Ron growled. Then he looked at the cards Steve had given him, folded them together, and turned to look at Mark while he waited for Cheryl, Kathryn, and Steve to get the cards they wanted.

"You really think there was someone at that school he could trust?" Ron asked.

"I'm sure of it," Mark said. "No one at home cared about him, he didn't have any friends that we know of, and none of his teachers had a good thing to say about him. Someone else there must have gotten through to him, or he never would have stayed."

Ron nodded thoughtfully at the suggestion. "I guess I'm up for a new round of interviews when I get back. I just can't believe no one noticed he was serial killer material. Did you read his discipline record?"

Mark nodded. "I am sure someone must have considered it, but they never took the thought too seriously because no one wants to believe that kind of evil lurks in the world."

"If they only knew," Ron muttered.

"But they don't want to, that's why they have you," Mark reminded him.

"Your turn, Ron," Steve said, and Ron sighed as he turned back to the game.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

Wil Erickson watched as the hand ended with a showdown between the two men after the women folded. He'd been able to observe unnoticed from the hall for several minutes as he'd written notes and signed charts. He chuckled quietly as his patient made a big show of fiddling with his money, counting out what would be a rather large bet, thinking about it some more, and folding. He knew Sloan was just playing with his opponent, messing with his mind, because he had never known the detective to be indecisive. Right or wrong, and he was usually right, Steve Sloan always made a decision and took action.

Wil entered the room and nodded to Mark and Cheryl as the large African-American man was collecting his paltry winnings and grumbling all the while. "You folded! Why did you fold? I can't believe you decided to fold! I had you! How did you know to fold?"

"If I told you that, it would spoil all the fun," Steve said with a grin.

"Well, Mr. Sloan," Wil interrupted, "I see that you are feeling better."

"I'm sorry," Steve frowned at the newcomer, "I don't remember meeting you."

"I'm not surprised. You were unconscious at the time." Wil stuck out his hand and as Steve shook it, he introduced himself. "I'm Wil Erickson, the surgeon who removed your gall bladder."

"Oh, hey, I sure do appreciate it," Steve said gratefully. "I can't believe how much better I am feeling already. How soon can I get out of here?"

"Steve," Kathryn gasped in shock, and Wil chuckled.

"Dad said I would be released tomorrow," Steve informed her defiantly.

"He's probably right," Wil said. "As a matter of fact, if you can eat a proper breakfast and it gives you no trouble, there's no reason you can't be eating lunch in your hotel."

"Wow, I had no idea you could recover that fast from something like this," Ron said. "So how long until he can go back to work?"

"Oh, that depends on his work," Wil said, remembering that no one had yet mentioned that his patient was a cop. "If it's a sedentary job, he could be back at his desk in a week or two."

Turning to Steve he then said, "But I got the impression from your physical condition that your job is anything but sedentary, Mr. Sloan. Am I right?"

Steve nodded, "I'm a cop."

"Well, then, you can still be back at your desk soon, but it will be at least six weeks before you'll be out catching bad guys," Wil told him. Looking around the room, he said to the others, "If you would excuse us for a moment, I need to check his incisions."

Ron, Cheryl, and Kathryn stepped out immediately, but Mark was a little hesitant to go. Steve gave him an encouraging smile and said, "Go on, Dad, and stretch your legs. You've been here all day, and there's really no need. I'm feeling fine."

"If you're sure, Son."

Steve nodded, "I am, but I'm glad you've been here, too."

Satisfied that his son was happy to let the surgeon look him over and confident that he was in good hands, Mark smiled and said, "Well, that being the case, I think I'll go to the cafeteria and have a bite to eat. I'll be back in, say, half an hour?"

Steve nodded and Wil said, "That will be fine."

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

Ron had accompanied Mark to the cafeteria while Cheryl and Kathryn went off to the ladies' room intending to join them in a few minutes. While Cheryl washed her hands, Kathryn checked her make up, and the two women studied each other surreptitiously with sideways glances while they were facing the mirror. Finally, Kathryn started laughing.

Cheryl gave her a bemused smile and asked, "What's so funny?"

"Us, you and me. Why do I get the feeling that we are each wondering what the other means to Steve Sloan?"

Cheryl shrugged, "Probably because we are."

Kathryn turned to face the other woman, and folding her arms asked, "Well?"

"Oh, no," Cheryl said, "You brought it up. You tell me first."

Kathryn shrugged. "Steve and I met at a conference in Orlando a few years ago. We saw more of each other than we did of any of the presentations. We saw each other again when Mark got sucked into a kidnapping case, and we've been meeting up at these conventions ever since."

"And you're more than just friends, I take it," Cheryl pressed. She was curious about the woman who seemed so fond of her partner but who had dumped him, apparently just the previous evening. More importantly, she wanted to find out if there was any chance she would try to maintain her relationship with Steve now that she had found Winnie.

"We were," Kathryn said, "until recently. I see him so rarely, and we were hardly exclusive. When I met someone else, I thought it was only fair to tell Steve. I knew he wouldn't want to be the 'other' man in my life, but he's still a friend."

Cheryl nodded, satisfied for now that the woman wouldn't play games with her partner. Not even Steve knew that Jesse had filled her in on the whole story about Steve and Kathryn when he found out they were going to be seeing her at the convention. Though the young doctor had enjoyed relating his friend's embarrassing story, he had been more concerned that Cheryl watch out for him and make sure Kathryn didn't play him for a fool once more.

Cheryl had indulgently agreed to look after her partner, but she was also glad she had the information about the attractive FBI agent. Until now, Kathryn hadn't seemed to spare a thought for her new man. She hadn't mentioned Winnie once, even at the conference when Steve wasn't there, and she had spent that first night flirting with Steve through dinner, leading him to believe that there was more in store when they got upstairs. Then she had dumped him. For a guy named Winnie. Cheryl suddenly wasn't sure anymore that she trusted the other woman.

"So, what about you?" Kathryn asked, apparently oblivious to Cheryl's thoughts.

"We're partners and good friends," Cheryl said. "He watches my back, I watch his, and God help the one who tries to hurt either of us."

"And if you didn't work together?" Kathryn suggested.

"But we do, so I haven't given the alternative any thought," Cheryl said.

"It looks to me like you're interested in someone else, anyway."

"What on earth are you talking about?" Cheryl asked, annoyed by the other woman's prying and with herself for answering.

"You and Agent Wagner really seem to have hit it off," Kathryn observed.

"Well, he's interesting," Cheryl admitted, "but he also has a history with a friend of mine, and even if I were the type of person to have a fling, it wouldn't be worth risking her friendship to have one with him."

"You mean Doctor Bentley, don't you?" Kathryn asked.

"Yeah, I mean Amanda." Her deduction didn't surprise Cheryl. Kathryn must have met Steve's friends when they worked together in LA, and she would have known that he only had a few who were close enough for him to know about their romantic relationships. Amanda would have been the most likely candidate to have an affair with Agent Wagner.

"Well, it's not like he married her, so he must be fair game now," Kathryn said.

"First of all," Cheryl began getting more irritated by the moment, "I don't like to think of a man as something to be hunted down and caught. Also, while he and Amanda may not be involved at the moment, I have no idea about his feelings for her, or hers for him, and even if I were interested in an on-again off-again romance with a man who lives three thousand miles away, I wouldn't do anything until I found out. Finally, I don't think marriage vows are the only way to measure one person's commitment to another; as I am sure you know, in some cases, they really mean nothing at all."

She gave Kathryn a pointed look as she finished, and watched as the woman's complexion changed through various shades of colors that weren't in the rainbow. First came the deep red blush of shame, then the livid white anger at being judged by another, and when she became a sickly green as she realized that someone had shared her history with a stranger without her knowledge, Cheryl knew she could make herself clear to the other woman.

"Steve didn't tell me what you did to him the first time the two of you met, someone who cares about him did," she began. "As far as I am concerned, you and he are adults and you can do what you want. He has obviously forgiven you, so much the better, but if you hurt him, if you toy with him or use him like you did before, I will hurt you. I meant what I said when I told you we are partners and friends, and I do watch his back."

Kathryn splashed some cool water on her face, patted it dry with a paper towel, tucked her hair behind her ears, and took a deep breath. Then she turned and faced Cheryl. "I'm glad he has someone to look out for him," she said. "But you don't need to protect him from me."

Taking her cell phone out of her bag, she headed toward the door and said, "Let Doctor Sloan and Agent Wagner know I have gone outside to call my boyfriend. I'll be back in to say goodnight to Steve before I go."

Cheryl nodded, and watched Kathryn until the door to the ladies' room closed behind her. Then she turned to the mirror, leaned heavily on the counter, stared hard at her own reflection, and wondered aloud, "Girl, what on earth has gotten into you?"

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

"So how's the patient, Doc?" Ron asked as he, Mark, and Cheryl entered the hospital room again.

"Ohhh, I think he'll live," Wil said in a jesting tone. He even allowed himself a smile, knowing that his words would be proven wrong in a few short days and that no one would have any logical reason to suspect him of any wrong doing. A simple staph infection, easily blamed on the hotel cleaning crew was all it would take. Once Steve Sloan was back in his hospital, he could then re-infect him with an antibiotic-resistant strain, and that would be that.

"Where's Kathryn?" Steve asked when he noticed that one of his friends was missing.

"She went outside to call Winnie," Cheryl said, instinctively moving closer to her partner as she spoke. He wasn't exactly sick anymore, but he still looked vulnerable, and she suspected that was part of the reason she had been so hard on Agent Wakeley. "She'll be back before visiting hours are over."

Steve nodded and shuffled the cards. "Well, Doc, it looks like we're a player down. Want to join in on a hand or two?"

Wil shook his head, relishing the invitation even as he turned it down. How easily they had come to trust him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Sloan, I have other patients to attend to, but maybe I will stop by after my shift."

"You'll be welcome any time," Steve assured him as he walked out, and Wil waved, acknowledging the comment.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

"Hey, Pooh," Kathryn said in an uncharacteristically childish voice, "it's me, you can stop screening your calls and pick up." She waited a moment, and heard the machine cut off.

_"Hi Kitty-Kat."_

"How are you?" Kathryn asked, abandoning the baby talk.

_"Fine, thanks, but missing you."_ Wincel Atherton Eubanks, III, told her. _"More to the point, how are you?"_

"Ok, but a little poorer than when I arrived."

Winnie tsked and fussed. _"I warned you that you couldn't win, the odds always favor the house, but did you listen to me? Oh, noooo. How much did you lose?"_

"Relax, Winnie," Kathryn snapped, "it was only about fifteen bucks, and it wasn't to a casino."

_"Kathryn, no, please tell me you weren't mugged,"_ her worrywart boyfriend pleaded, anxious for her well-being.

"Winnie, relax will you? It was nothing like that . . . Well if you'd shut up, I could tell you . . . That friend I was telling you about got sick last night . . . No, it's not contagious . . . Yes, I told him about us before it happened . . . Anyway, he had to have emergency surgery . . . He's feeling much better now . . . Yes, I've been to visit him, in fact I'm in the hospital parking lot right now, about to go back up and say good night . . . Relax, Winnie, there were three other people in the room, including his dad. All we did was talk shop and play a few hands of poker. That's how I lost the fifteen bucks . . . Ok, look, either you trust me or you don't, but I am not going to leave without saying goodbye, and when they release my friend from the hospital, I am not going to allow him to sit in the hotel room alone all day . . . Because he's still my friend, Winnie, and friends visit each other when they are recovering from surgery . . . Listen, Wincel, I am here in the parking lot, in the desert heat, talking to you now when I could be in his hospital room hanging out with friends. If that doesn't say love, I don't know what does. You tell me, what should I do to convince you? How can I prove myself to you? . . . Apology accepted . . . Love you too, Winnie Pooh . . . Yes, I'll call you before I go to bed . . . Bye."

Kathryn sighed and stared at her phone for a minute. She supposed she couldn't blame Winnie for not trusting her, but now she wished like hell that she hadn't told him about how she had slept with Steve to make her ex-husband jealous and how their relationship, after a rocky start, had blossomed from there. Honesty was the best policy, but there was something to be said for having a secret or two. She just hoped he wouldn't be like this about every man she had known before she met him.


	4. Odds Always Favor the House

**Chapter Four: **Odds Always Favor the House

Steve pursed his lips and alternately studied his cards and his opponent's expression. Doctor 'call me Wil' Erickson had come back after his shift, and accepted his invitation to join the poker game. While his doctor had dropped a few dollars early in the game, he was now winning far too much and far too often for Steve's liking. Ron, Cheryl, and Kathryn had folded this hand already, but Steve was trying desperately to identify Wil's tells so he could cut his own losses to the man and maximize his winnings, but Wil was damnably hard to figure out.

With a loud, gusty sigh, Steve tossed a dollar and a half into the pot. "I'm calling your bluff," he said.

"What makes you think it's a bluff?" Wil asked.

"There are only two reasons anyone would bet that big," Steve said. "You're either bluffing or you think you have an unbeatable hand, and I don't think you have an unbeatable hand."

"So, show me what you got," Wil said with a smirk.

Steve lay down an ace-high flush. Only three possible hands could beat him, a full house, four of a kind, and a straight flush.

"Well, what are you holding?" he asked.

"Two measly pair," Wil told him with a frown. "Deuces," he laid them down and Steve reached for the pot, "and deuces."

"That's cold, Doc," Steve complained. "I can't remember the last time I was beaten that badly."

Wil shrugged. "Sometimes it pays off to toss a few hands early in the game. It gives your opponents a false sense of security. Then you can bet on a big hand the same way you did on your bluffs and sucker them in."

"You know, your bedside manner stinks," Steve grumbled.

Cheryl chuckled. "You are a sore loser," she admonished her partner.

"Will you quit defending this guy?" Steve said. "He took your money, too, you know."

"And mine," Ron added, "but it was more than worth the price to see him knock you down a couple of notches."

"Besides," Kathryn laughed, "he beat you worse than any of us!"

As Wil pulled his winnings toward him, his pager went off. "I'm on call tonight," he said, checking the number on the device, "but I guess they think I have already left the hospital. My regular shift was over an hour ago."

He pocketed his money and excused himself.

"Hey, you have to give me a chance to win that back sometime," Steve called after him.

"I'll see what I can do," Wil answered as he walked out.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

Steve sat back and sighed contentedly as the afternoon sun tumbled in through the window and fell across his bed in a golden sheet of light. He had been dismayed to find out that breakfast was a congealed mass of tepid oatmeal and two slices of dry toast. After giving it a disgusted look, he had gone back to sleep only to be rudely awakened an hour later by a nurse who tsked and fussed at him saying that he would never recover if he didn't eat. He had tried to down some of the gloppy mess just to shut her up, but when he gagged on the first bite and refused to have another go at it, she had made a notation on his chart that he still seemed to be struggling with nausea. She had dismissed his complaint that there wouldn't have been a problem had the food been edible, and after contacting Doctor Erickson, she had received permission to give him another dose of compazine. The medicine had left him groggy, and to his surprise, he slept soundly until eleven o'clock, waking only briefly when the same nurse came in repeatedly to check his condition.

With his dad's help, he had been able to maneuver himself into the shower and felt very much refreshed after washing himself, dressing in his own pajamas, and shaving for the first time in two days. Lunch had been tasty and satisfying, and hadn't caused him any distress, although the meatloaf had been a bit dry and lacked the seasoning of Community General's recipe. Now, he was just sitting quietly, reading some of the handouts Cheryl had brought him from the meetings he had missed, and waiting for his doctor to examine him one more time before releasing him. His dad was sitting by his bed, reading _The Gambler's Guide to Vegas_ as if he were contemplating hitting the casinos later.

"So, Mr. Sloan, how are we feeling today?" Wil asked from the doorway.

"I don't know about you, Doc, but I feel pretty good," Steve responded cheerfully. "I've had a shower and shave and I ate a full lunch, and I haven't regretted it yet."

"Back to your old self, then?"

"Well, I still feel pretty tired, but that could be the medication, right?"

"It probably is," Wil agreed with a nod, then, looking at Mark, "Doctor Sloan, would you excuse us a moment? I need to check his incisions."

Mark looked at Steve, and when Steve nodded, he said, "Ok, I'll just be down the hall stretching my legs."

Wil smiled gleefully as his patient lay back and closed his eyes, trying to relax for the exam that would determine whether he would leave the hospital or not. He poked and prodded gently, and hid his pleasure at evoking a few painful grunts. It was a shame that Steve had already taken a shower, because he had come prepared to introduce the staph infection as he had been planning since the man showed up on his surgical table, but it would be hard to blame the illness on the hotel if Steve wasn't going to make use of the facilities today. It would be better to wait a couple of days, until he came to have the drainage tube removed. That way, Wil would have the chance to contaminate the hotel linens beforehand and not have to sneak in later, when his patient was sick and Mark Sloan was looking for the cause.

Leaving Steve to button his pajama top as he made some notations on the chart, he said, "Everything looks good, Steve. Is there anything I should know?"

Steve opened his eyes and shrugged. "I feel fine, all things considered, but I was wondering, would it be all right for me to attend a couple of the meetings I am signed up for? Also, I was supposed to give a presentation on Friday. Will I be able to do that?"

Wil half sat, half leaned, on the bed near his patient's feet. Placing a reassuring hand on the blanket that covered Steve's ankle, he said, "Steve, you can do exactly what you feel like doing. Just rest when you feel tired and try to stick close to the restroom for the next few days to see how your body reacts to not having a gall bladder."

He didn't mention the possible rather disgusting results of eating fatty foods to his patient. If Mark Sloan had warned him, then he already knew, but Wil was secretly hoping for an embarrassing accident.

"I don't suppose you could remove the drainage tube today, could you?"

Wil looked at the contents of the bag and said, "I will consider it tomorrow if you want to come back around three in the afternoon. I have office hours in the building next door, and I have already made an appointment for you if that is convenient."

Steve nodded. "I'll be there. So does that mean I can leave now?"

"Well, there is some discharge paperwork to complete, but yes, you should be out of here within the hour," Wil promised him. "I'll send your dad back."

"Ok, and thanks, Doc."

"All part of the service. Take care of yourself, and I will see you tomorrow to see if we can take out that drainage tube."

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

By the time Mark pulled into the parking lot of the pharmacy where Doctor Erickson had called to have Steve's prescriptions filled, Steve, still feeling considerable fatigue from his recent illness and surgery, was sound asleep in the passenger seat. With a smile, Mark climbed out of the car, leaving the motor running and the air conditioning on so that his snoozing son wouldn't overheat.

Walking to the dispensary counter in the back, he called out, "Hello? Is anyone there?"

"Take a number!" a grouchy voice croaked from behind the wall that separated the shelves of drugs from the service counter.

"But there's no one here," he replied to the disembodied voice.

"Take a number and wait your turn!" the crow-like caw ordered.

"But it is my turn," he replied a bit bemused. "I'm the only customer out here."

A jowly, stoop-shouldered, beady-eyed, crab-like creature that could be identified as female only by the skirt and the too-bright red lipstick she wore shuffled out from the back and pointed at the stack of numbered plastic cards on the counter.

"The sign says take a number!" she squawked at him.

Surrendering to the old woman's stubbornness, he took card number sixty-seven off the hook and stood at the sign that said, 'Line forms here.' To his dismay, the crone shuffled back into the dispensary as if he wasn't there.

Mark waited for a minute or two, but when the decrepit old woman didn't return to call out his number, he began to wander about the shop, looking at the various supplies and equipment offered for sale. There were specially made, loose fitting cotton socks for diabetics, support hose, walkers and canes, toilet chairs, and bedpans and urinals for those confined to bed. Behind the glass counters, he saw all sorts of -ostomy, feeding-tube, and respiratory therapy supplies. One aisle was full of at least a hundred different kinds of bandages, and another was nothing but vitamins, herbs, and supplements. One wall was hung with nothing but trusses and girdles for treating hernias. Mark had to smile. This was truly an old-fashioned apothecary's shop, and he had no doubt that if he looked hard enough, he could still find a phial of laudanum somewhere in the place.

The store also had a small magazine and greeting card section toward the front. It was loaded with out-of-date magazines and newspapers, calendars that were several years old, and the sort of 'literature' that was usually sold in a plain, brown wrapper, and he busied himself there looking for something that might interest Steve. Nothing on the rack would entertain his son without humiliating him to purchase it, but he did find a charming, ancient, child's Viewmaster toy with several packets containing reels of images of the town from the late 1940's and early 1950's. Thinking that this was something he might like to preserve for posterity, he looked for a price tag, and was surprised to find the Viewmaster was only three dollars and the pictures were only $1.00 a pack.

Opening the box and one of the envelopes containing the reels of images, he slipped a cardboard and celluloid disc into the viewer, turned toward the window to get more light, and precariously balancing the other packets, card number sixty-seven and the viewer box in one hand, he marveled at the pictures as they presented themselves. There was something amazing and nostalgic about the images, and before he knew it, he was imagining himself in some romantic gangster film.

"Sixty-seven!" the crow cawed, startling Mark and causing him to throw his hands in the air, send the picture reels flying and nearly drop the Viewmaster. He collected himself as he collected the scattered pictures, and, with his arms full of an ungainly mess of objects, he walked carefully to the back of the pharmacy.

Depositing his collection of stuff on the counter, he said, "I'm number sixty-seven."

"Where's your card?"

He did not find it as he shuffled through the items on the counter, and turning to look down the aisle, he saw the card lying on the floor in front of the magazine stand. "I seem to have dropped it. I'll be right back."

"Well, hurry up," the old woman called after him as he walked down the aisle. "Other customers might be waiting."

Mark looked around the store, but it appeared that he was the only shopper in the place. He hurried anyway, not wanting to hear the lady's raspy voice urging him on again. Returning to the counter, he slapped the plastic card down and said, "I'm here to pick up some medication for Steven Sloan. It was prescribed by Doctor Erickson."

"Well, why didn't you say so?" the old hag snapped. "I was just filling that order when you came in."

Mark shrugged helplessly and sighed as the pharmacist shuffled back into the dispensary once more. While she was gone, he busied himself with putting the Viewmaster reels back into their envelope and the viewer back in its box. When the curmudgeon returned, he paid for Steve's medications. To his delight, he was also able to purchase the old Viewmaster and the three packets of pictures that went with it.

As he walked out of the store, he checked the labels on Steve's pill bottles and, thinking of the pharmacist's quirks, silently reminded himself to check the tablets to be sure that they were the right drugs and the right dosages. There were five compazine tablets in case of further nausea and a week's supply of Tylenol with codeine for pain.

"Doctor Wilfred Erickson," Mark murmured to himself as he read the label, "I'm with Cheryl. I think I'd prefer Wil, too."

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

"Blackjack," Steve said, showing his cards.

"The gentleman wins again," the dealer proclaimed, and she paid Steve his winnings.

"I guess your luck hasn't turned bad after all," Ron said, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You know what that means, don't you?"

"What?" Steve asked as he placed a bet for another hand.

"Doctor Erickson is just a better poker player than you."

Steve shrugged. "I know I'm not that good," he said, gesturing to the dealer for another card, "but you guys really stink."

Ron looked as if he was about to argue, but then thought better of it as he saw Cheryl, Mark, and Kathryn coming out of the elevator.

"Dealer takes a card," the young woman on the other side of the table said.

"The show starts in ninety minutes," Ron said. "Are you gonna have some dinner before we go?" Since they had all missed the Penn and Teller show due to Steve's illness, Danny O'Shea, the casino host who had been so grateful to Steve and Ron for catching Carter and Caitlin Sweeney, had acquired five tickets to _Cirque du Soleil_ for Steve, Cheryl, Ron, Kathryn, and Mark.

Steve nodded. "Yeah, I could eat. Just let me finish this hand."

"Dealer has nineteen," the girl said.

Steve turned over his cards and said, "Twenty."

"And the gentleman wins again," the girl said cheerfully. After all, it wasn't her money that the handsome man was taking.

Steve tipped the dealer then collected his chips and went to the cashier to cash out.

"Good game?" Cheryl asked as he and Ron joined the group heading into the casino restaurant for the buffet.

"Doubled my money," Steve told her.

"And how are you feeling?" Mark asked, more concerned about his son's well being than his gambling luck.

For a quiet moment, Steve took a personal inventory, then he said, "Not too bad, but I think I will take my pain meds with me just in case."

Mark nodded. "Nothing wrong with being prepared."

As they worked down the buffet line, Steve would occasionally ask his dad about certain foods. Some Mark approved and others he warned against, and once, when Steve was reluctant to heed his dad's advice, Mark replied, "Eat it if you want to, but don't complain to me when you spend half the show in . . . reserved seating." Getting the message, Steve reluctantly passed up the coconut-fried shrimp.

"So, what did you think of my presentation?" Ron asked as Steve and Mark sat down.

"I don't know," Steve answered. "I suppose there are some trends that can be identified among a certain group, like saying that most serial killers wet the bed longer than normal kids, started fires, or tortured small animals; but I find it hard to believe you can predict the color car a guy drives with any regularity. I still think profiling has a lot more to do with intuition and instinct than science and statistics. I'd really like to see some proof of consistency."

"Proof? What kind of proof?" Ron queried.

"I don't know," Steve shrugged, taking a bite of steak. "Maybe if you took a dozen cases, ones that weren't widely publicized, and presented them to twenty FBI profilers. If they consistently produced similar profiles, and if those profiles were consistently more right than wrong, maybe then I would be convinced."

Cheryl, Ron, and Kathryn shared a look and Mark barely stifled a laugh. Looking around in confusion, Steve asked, "What? What did I miss?"

"You've been caught," Mark told him.

"What do you mean, 'caught'?"

"You left halfway through my presentation, didn't you?" Ron asked him.

"No, I did not. I stayed through to the end," Steve lied.

"No, you didn't, because if you had, you would know I did just what you suggested and got some very interesting results," Ron told him.

Chagrinned, Steve looked down at his plate and kept quiet, not knowing what to say.

"Hey, Partner," Cheryl said kindly, "we realize you're not superman, and really, being up and around two days after serious surgery is pretty amazing."

Kathryn laughed, "We know you're not ten feet tall and bullet proof, Sloan. If you need a rest, there's no shame in taking one, just don't lie to us about it." As she spoke, she flagged down a passing waiter and indicated to him that she wanted a refill of her strawberry margarita.

Steve sighed and said, "Ok, you've got me." Looking up at Ron he added, "I'd really like to see the results of your research sometime, but right now, can we just eat and go to the show?"

"Works for me," Ron said agreeably. "I'll make sure you get a copy of my presentation before we leave Vegas. I think if you read it all, it will make a believer out of you."

The five friends enjoyed dinner together, their conversation covering everything from sports and politics to shop talk and current events to the comparative virtues of tequila, rum, and vodka. Once they had finished, they went out to the lobby, and the doorman called up one of the hotel's limos, arranged, like the suites, by the grateful casino host, Danny O'Shea.

"You know, all this special treatment is starting to make me really uncomfortable," Ron complained as they settled into the gray, butter soft, leather upholstery of the limousine. Steve and Ron took the seat with their back to the driver and Mark sat between the two women facing them.

"I know what you mean," Steve agreed, grunting softly as he positioned himself in the seat. He still had the drainage tube and bag attached under his clothes and had to be careful not to sit on them or get them caught up on anything. "I keep expecting the rat squad to show up."

"Oh, come on, you two," Kathryn cajoled them as she took out the complimentary bottle of champagne from the on-board refrigerator and began to work the foil off the cork, "if the guy wants to express his appreciation for what you did, who are you to object?"

"Let's save that for the trip back," Ron said, taking the bottle from her hands and passing her a sparkling water instead. "It will go down better after dinner has settled for a while."

"Kathryn, we were just doing our jobs," Steve told her. "I don't know about the FBI, but a good cop doesn't take favors as payment for doing his job. There's a word for that."

"It's called racketeering," Ron interjected.

"But you didn't ask for anything," Kathryn continued, opening her water. "He offered it. So what's the problem?"

"The problem is, it's a fine line between a citizen offering something of his own free will and a citizen offering something to secure and ensure police services," Cheryl explained as she found a diet soda in the refrigerator and, taking two of the chilled glasses poured some for Steve and some for herself. "I can't believe you don't see that."

Handing Steve his drink, Cheryl tapped the pocket where she had seen him put his pain medication and gave him a commanding look. Steve made a face but nodded. He had hoped no one had noticed his discomfort as he climbed into the car, but now that he knew his partner had caught him, the best way to avoid becoming the center of attention was to simply comply with her wishes. Setting his glass in one of the drink holders on his side of the passenger compartment, he fished out his pills and took one, washing it down with the soda Cheryl had poured for him.

"I see the problem when a cop walks into a convenience store on his beat, twirling his night stick and helping himself to a little five-finger discount," Kathryn said, "but come on, Vegas isn't even in your jurisdiction or ours, so what does it hurt?"

"I have had cases with out of state ties before," Steve reminded her, "and the Feds by definition have national jurisdiction. There's no telling when one of us might have a case where all these special perks start to look like Danny O'Shea was taking out insurance instead of expressing his gratitude."

Mark, who had been idly flipping through a hotel discount booklet as the discussion went on around him finally broke in. "If you are concerned about that, Son," he said, handing the brochure to Steve, "then I suggest that you hold on to one of these."

Frowning, Steve asked, "What in the world for?"

"So you can prove that Mr. O'Shea hasn't offered you anything that isn't available to the general public," Mark said as if it should be obvious to everyone. "There's a coupon in there to upgrade two rooms to a suite if you rent them for a week when a suite is available. There's another for a night's free limo service when you rent a suite for a week, and a third for complimentary show tickets when you rent a block of four or more rooms. All Danny O'Shea did was find the best deals available for you. Anyone could get the same offers if they would look for them."

"You have got to be kidding me," Steve said in disbelief.

"Nope," Mark replied shaking his head. "It's all here in black and white."

"It's a wonder they make any money," Ron muttered.

"Oh, yeah? How much did you drop at the blackjack table?"Mark challenged him.

Ron thought a minute then nodded his understanding.

"The odds always favor the house," Mark explained. "Gambling is their bread and butter. Lodging and entertainment are just what they use to lure people in."

"So, Straight and Narrow's ethical dilemma is solved, right?" Kathryn asked, indicating Steve and Ron.

"I would say so," Mark agreed as the limo came to a stop.

"Good! Then can we please just enjoy the show!" As the driver opened the door, she extended her hand and allowed him to help her out of the vehicle.


	5. As Ye Sow, So Shall Ye Reap

**Chapter Five: As Ye Sow, So Shall Ye Reap**

"That was amazing!" Cheryl gushed as they came out of Cirque du Soliel. "I have never, ever seen anything like it!"

"I think it was kind of freakish myself," Ron commented.

"If you would just consider the strength required for some of those stunts, you would have to be impressed," Kathryn told him. "Admit it, you never thought a bunch of dancers could be so athletic, did you?"

Steve grinned, both to see his friend put on the spot and to see that Cheryl and Kathryn had finally found some common ground. It seemed to him that they had been at odds in every conversation since he'd come out of surgery, but he couldn't figure out why.

"Ok, ok, yes, they are surprisingly strong," Ron conceded as he made a path through the crowd for the others to follow, "but why not put that strength to use doing something productive instead of hanging from the rafters and prancing around on stage in strange costumes?"

"Because they are artists," Cheryl told him impatiently.

"That's wasted on him," Kathryn said. "The man has all the imagination of a . . . of a horned toad."

"A horned toad?" Cheryl, Steve, and Mark echoed in disbelief.

"Well, yeah, we're in the desert. It's a desert animal. Work with me, people!" Kathryn said expansively, including all the tourists within earshot in her plea for understanding.

"I have plenty of imagination when it counts," Ron defended himself.

"Oh, yeah? Prove it!" Kathryn taunted him in a voice that made it clear what she was imagining.

"We don't have that kind of relationship, Agent Wakely," Ron replied, stopping at the curb and turning to face his friends, standing firm, arms folded across his chest.

With a sly grin, Kathryn sidled up to him, tugged gently on his tie, and, in a sultry, sexy voice told him, "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, Agent Wagner."

Suddenly very uncomfortable, Ron held her at arm's length, stumbled backwards off the curb, and said, "Yes, um, well, uh . . . "

"Oh, never mind," Kathryn said in mock frustration. Turning to Steve, she said, "You have enough imagination to entertain a lady, don't you?"

"I suppose I do, but given my medical condition, that might not be such a good idea," Steve replied as the limo pulled up and the driver came and opened the door.

"Dr. Sloan, are there any restrictions on physical activities after an operation like Steve's?"

"Not really," Mark said, but catching a sharp look from Steve, he amended, "but if a patient doesn't feel ready for something, it's best to hold off for a while."

"Oh, all _right_," Kathryn finally gave in as she climbed into the car and flopped down on the seat. "You're just going to be a lot of sticks in the mud tonight, aren't you?"

"You know, you can have fun without totally losing your mind," Steve said as he eased himself down beside her.

"But that's so boring. Now can we _please _open the champagne?" she nearly whined as Mark, Ron, and Cheryl crawled in to join them.

They all looked mutely at one another until Mark finally shrugged and said, "I don't see why not."

"Yay!" Kathryn cheered, and immediately got the bubbly out and took the foil off the cap. Handing the corkscrew to Mark, she said, "I think you should do the honors, Doctor Sloan, since you are the only other person who seems interested in enjoying himself."

Mark deftly opened the bottle, not spilling a drop, and filled four glasses. Steve drank sparkling water to avoid a reaction with his pain medication.

Pressing the button that activated the intercom to the front of the limo, Kathryn called, "Driver, let's cruise the strip for a while."

"Yes, ma'am. Do you have any particular destination in mind?"

"Nope!" Kathryn drained her glass in one gulp and handed it to Mark for a refill as she leaned back in the seat and cuddled against Steve. Though he was a bit surprised, Mark did not begrudge her more to drink.

Steve tried to hide a grimace of pain as Kathryn snuggled up beside him, but he was not entirely successful. Seeing his discomfort, Cheryl said, "I hate to be a wet blanket, but I have an early meeting tomorrow. Do you think we could just go back to the hotel?"

"Oh, come on, live a little, Sergeant Banks! You're in Las Vegas, anything goes." Kathryn seemed not to notice the dubious looks the others were giving her, but when no one echoed her sentiments, she sighed, "Oh, all right."

Pressing the intercom button again, she said, "Driver, take us back to the hotel, please."

As she settled back against Steve again, the limo made a series of turns and was soon headed back to the hotel. Kathryn blithely sipped her champagne, not seeming to notice the uncomfortable silence that had descended upon them.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

Dr. Wilfred Erickson chuckled softly to himself as he sprayed a light mist over the fresh linens on the carts in the basement. It had only taken a day or so of observation to figure out the hotel's routine, and he knew that while the guests slept or partied into the wee hours of the morning, these carts would be taken upstairs and unloaded into the maids' closets on each floor. The solution in his bottle contained a mild form of staph bacteria, no threat to anyone, really, unless they were in a medically fragile condition like Steve Sloan. Some of the contaminated linens would find their way into Sloan's bathroom in the morning, and when he fell ill a day or two later, if his father decided to investigate, the source of the infection would be traced right back to the hotel. No one would ever suspect him of poisoning his patient.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

"So, are you coming in or not?" Steve asked one last time.

"No, I don't believe I am," Kathryn told him firmly. "We have the limo until four in the morning, and I plan to enjoy it." She motioned for the driver to shut the door, and when it was closed and he had mover to the front of the vehicle again, she put the window down and said, "Sleep well."

"Yeah, thanks," Steve responded sarcastically. When the car pulled away from the curb, he muttered, "I wonder what's wrong with her."

"I think she's in heat," Cheryl muttered back.

When Mark and Ron stopped in their tracks and Steve shot her a surprised look, Cheryl clapped a hand over her mouth. Then she put her hand down, and with an embarrassed grin, she said, "I'm sorry. That was crude and inappropriate, and none of you were meant to hear it; but look at how she's been acting. She was flirting with all three of you, especially you, Steve, and she is supposed to be in a committed relationship with Winnie-whatever-his-name-is. Now, I don't know Kathryn well enough to be considered her friend, but one of you three should probably have a talk with the woman because something is definitely not right with her. I'll see you all in the morning."

As Cheryl walked off, the men looked at one another and Steve finally said, "She's right, you know. Kathryn likes to flirt, but she isn't usually so overt."

"But is it our place to say anything?" Ron wondered aloud.

"I dunno," Steve said. "I guess it depends on whether we object to her flirting with us."

"Why don't we wait and see how she is in the morning before we do anything?" Mark suggested.

"Yeah, ok."

"Sounds good."

As the two younger men headed for the elevator to take them to their floor, Mark chuckled, and under his breath muttered, "Cowards."

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

In the limo, Kathryn pulled out her cell phone and checked her messages. She had felt the phone vibrate in her pocket at least half a dozen times during the show, and two or three more in the limo afterwards. Scrolling through the messages, she found they were all from her boyfriend. Sighing, she found his number in the list on her phone and pressed call.

_"Kat! Where have you been?"_

"Hello to you, too, Sweetheart," she said, ignoring the urgency in his tone. "Where's the fire?"

_"What do you mean?"_

"Well, you've only left me a dozen messages in the last three hours. Something serious must be happening for you to call me every fifteen minutes."

_"Oh, I hadn't realized I was calling so often. I had just gotten off work and I was home and missing you, so I decided to call. How's your friend doing?"_

"He's fine," Kathryn responded, realizing now why she had received so many calls, and feeling suddenly ashamed of her behavior earlier in the evening.

_"So, what have you been doing?"_

"Just more boring meetings," she said.

_"From eight to midnight?"_

"Look, Wincel," Kathryn snapped. "Either you trust me or you don't, and if you don't then . . . Then to hell with you!" Clicking the phone shut before he had a chance to respond, she tossed it into her evening bag, took the last of the champagne out of the refrigerator and filled her glass. "Driver!" she called pressing the intercom button. "Find a liquor store. I want something stronger than this complimentary fizzy stuff."

Draining her glass in one long gulp, she then put it aside and sat sulking while she waited for the car to stop at a liquor store. She loved Wincel, at least she thought she did, but she needed him to trust her. Then again, with her shameless flirting and come-ons this evening, she had already betrayed any trust he might have had in her. But even if the guys had been willing, she wouldn't have done anything, would she? Shrugging, and deciding it was too much of a dilemma for her to work out on her own in her current state, she sighed with relief and clambered out of the limo when it pulled into the parking lot of an establishment that sold fine wines and hard liquor. In another hour, she wouldn't care much what Winnie or anyone else thought of her.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

Kathryn skulked behind a potted palm in the hotel's restaurant, hoping against hope that she wouldn't have to face any of her friends right away this morning. She didn't remember much of the previous evening, but what she did recall made her feel foolish, embarrassed, and thoroughly ashamed of herself. Of course, the throbbing head and queasy stomach of a hangover didn't help.

"Looking for someone?"

The familiar, amused voice in her ear made her jump, and she could only hope that Mark Sloan bit his tongue when her shoulder hit his jaw. It would serve him right for finding humor in her humiliation.

She turned to face him, and before she could offer a cutting comment about his sneaking up on her, his expression changed to one of concern and, as he rubbed his jaw, he said, "You look like you had a difficult night. Are you ok?"

How could she be angry with him now? Bringing a hand up to fiddle nervously with an earring, she said, "Actually, I was hoping to avoid seeing you and the others this morning. I'm feeling a little, uh . . . rough around the edges."

Mark noted the dark circles under her eyes and the pasty, greenish-gray complexion and said, "So I noticed. How much did you have to drink after you left us?"

"I'd rather not say."

Mark took pity on the troubled young woman. "Well, why don't you go have a seat, and I will get you something to eat. Cheryl and Ron have already gone to their first meeting of the day and Steve went back upstairs to lie down after he ate."

"Is he all right?" Kathryn was immediately concerned for her friend, her own embarrassment and discomfort momentarily forgotten.

"Yeah, he's fine," Mark told her casually, "but last night tired him out more than he expected. He has a post-op check up this afternoon, and he's gonna take it easy until then. Now go have that seat, and order yourself a big glass of water, no ice. Sip it slowly through a straw, and I'll be with you in a moment."

When Mark arrived at the table, Kathryn was nursing a cup of strong, black coffee, and the water was untouched.

"I thought I said water," he admonished her sternly as he sat a dish of yogurt with fresh fruit on the table before her.

"Coffee doesn't have any calories either," she replied.

"But it does have caffeine, a diuretic, and it will compound the effects of your hangover." Taking the cup and moving it to a recently vacated table beside them, he shoved the water toward her. "Excessive alcohol intake wreaks havoc on the body," he explained. "It dehydrates you and depletes potassium, Vitamin C, and the B-Vitamins. Between the water, the fruit in the yogurt, and the poached egg with whole-wheat toast I asked them to send to the table, you should be feeling better sooner, rather than later."

When Kathryn looked at him dubiously, he said, "Next to abstinence, it's the world's best hangover cure."

Shrugging, Kathryn sipped her water, hoping if she complied with his orders that he wouldn't question her too closely about her behavior the previous night. When it was about half gone Mark pushed the yogurt and fruit toward her.

"The banana slices replenish potassium and the mandarin orange wedges and strawberries are high in Vitamin C," he said. "The yogurt will coat your stomach so you don't feel too nauseous."

Nodding gratefully, Kathryn took a tentative bite of the smooth, cool, fruity concoction. It tasted surprisingly good, better than any yogurt she had ever had, and she figured it must have had something to do with it filling an immediate need for certain nutrients, almost like a pregnant woman craving certain foods.

When the waiter delivered her poached egg and unbuttered wheat toast, Kathryn risked speaking for the first time since Mark had taken her coffee away. "I suppose this would be the B-Vitamins, right?"

"Yes, it would," Mark confirmed, "especially in the egg yolk, so be sure to dip your toast in it."

Kathryn broke off a corner of the toast and did as she was told. It wasn't as tasty as the fruit and yogurt, but somehow, it was still more satisfying than she had expected, and to her surprise, she was feeling a little better already.

"I think we need to have a little talk," Mark said when she had finished the toast and most of the egg, and Kathryn hung her head. What had she been thinking about feeling better?

"Look, Doctor Sloan . . . "

"You know you can call me Mark," he interrupted. "You weren't acting like yourself, and I am not the only one who noticed."

"I know," she said, "and I'm sorry. I'll apologize to the others later."

"That's good," Mark encouraged her, "but I was thinking you might feel better if you talked about it with a friend."

She eyed the old man suspiciously and could tell at a glance that he wasn't going to let her get away before she had told him what was troubling her. With a sigh, she studied her congealing egg and, pushing it away, sought for the words to tell him that his son was about to ruin the best relationship she had ever had with a man.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

Steve lay on the bed in his half of the suite staring up at the ceiling and feeling pitiful. He had really wanted to attend the Crime and Poverty seminar this morning. As long as he'd been a cop, he'd known that the reasons people committed crimes often varied with their financial circumstances, and this was the first time in a long time that anyone had taken a close look at the desperation of some of the poorest people who turned to crime just to survive. His colleagues often teased him for being a softie at heart, but he still believed that a proactive community, helping the helpless before they became desperate enough to do something criminal, was more effective than the best police force on the planet at stopping the kinds of crimes that were most often committed by the poor. He had really wanted to see if the seminar would prove his point, but after breakfast, he had just felt too weak to sit through the three-hour session. In fact, it had been all he could do to stand up in the elevator and walk down the hall back to the suite.

A soft knock on the door roused him from his melancholy. "Come in," he called.

"Hey, Partner," Cheryl said softly as she entered the room.

"Hey," Steve smiled, glad to see her, and then he frowned. "Aren't you supposed to be in a meeting?"

"Yeah, but it's that guy Vasquez from Miami Beach," she told him. "I figured I could miss a few minutes to come check on you and not really miss anything."

"Vasquez? The one with all the pie charts from the conference in San Fran last year?"

"The one and only," Cheryl confirmed.

"Ugh. You could miss the whole meeting and not miss much," Steve told her.

"Steve! Shame on you!" Cheryl chastised him.

"Tell me I'm wrong," he deadpanned.

Cheryl opened her mouth twice to respond, and then realizing her partner was right about Detective Vasquez from Miami Beach, she just laughed.

"See what I mean? You can't even defend him without lying."

"Enough about him," Cheryl changed the subject. "How are you feeling?"

Steve gave it some thought and then said, "Tired. I was feeling sorry for myself until you came in. Kinda pathetic, really."

"Why?"

"Ohhh, because I don't seem to be able to do much more than eat and sleep, I suppose. Or maybe it's because I was wondering what's on TV but I don't even have the energy to roll over and pick up the remote."

Chuckling, Cheryl went round the king-sized bed and brought the remote control back to him on the other side of the mattress. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

Steve considered for a moment and then said, "Get me, no, but I wouldn't mind some company, unless you want to get back to Vasquez and his pie charts."

Cheryl shuddered in mock horror. "Who are you kidding?" She went round the bed again and climbed up beside her partner. Sitting with her back straight against the headboard and her legs tucked up under her, she took the TV guide off the nightstand and flipped through it. "Ooh! _Die Hard_ is on channel seventeen."

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

_I can't believe I am discussing this with his father, _Kathryn thought to herself.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing, just thinking out loud," she replied. _I can't believe I said that aloud. _"Mark, you knew Steve and I had sort of a . . . a thing going on, didn't you?"

"A thing? What kind of thing?"

"You know," Kathryn began awkwardly, "where we meet up at these conferences once or twice a year and . . . "

"And you uh . . . " Mark made some nervous gestures with his hands that had nothing at all to do with the topic of conversation.

"Uh-huh," Kathryn confirmed.

"And maybe you tack on a day of vacation so you can, ummm . . . " More random, uncomfortable gesturing.

"Exactly!" There was no doubt in Kathryn's tone that they were talking about the same thing.

"No," Mark deadpanned, "I didn't know that."

At Kathryn's expression of mortification, he explained, "That is, Steve never said anything, so I couldn't be sure, but I had pretty much assumed that was what was happening."

Kathryn breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that what she hadn't said wasn't news to him.

"But this time you didn't," Mark continued when she didn't know what to say next.

"Right!"

After another awkward silence, he supplied, "Because of Winnie."

"Right!" This time, probably because he didn't know how to continue, Mark gave her a questioning look.

"I'm awfully fond of him," Kathryn explained, suddenly wondering whether the old man really was as uncomfortable with the conversation as he seemed, "Winnie, that is. And Steve, too! And I would never, ever do anything to hurt him. I mean Winnie. So, I told him . . . I mean Steve . . . that we couldn't . . . "

She gestured futilely, and, from her reluctance to say the words, Mark got a good idea of what it was that she had told Steve they couldn't do. Wanting to help her move the discussion along, he added, " . . . so you didn't."

"Right!"

"So the problem is . . . " Mark actually had a good idea what the problem was, but he felt she needed to be the one to say it.

"I _wanted_ to!" the young woman wailed. "Mark, what should I _do_?"

Mark had intended to coax her to talk about her dilemma more, to help her work things out for herself, but the plea was so heartfelt and sincere that he didn't have the heart to drag the conversation out.

"Sweetie, I can't tell you what to do," he said. "I don't know what you _should _do, but I do know my son, and I can tell you a few things that might help you make a decision."

"Uh-huh?"

The questioning tone she used showed more than anything just how confused the poor girl was about her feelings. Reaching out and patting her hand, Mark shared with her a few home truths that he thought she probably already knew but hadn't really considered.

"First of all, Steve is not interested in casual sex," he began. "The fact that he has been maintaining this on-again off-again affair with you for so many years, especially after what happened the first time the two of you were together, tells me that he feels genuine affection for you and that he probably hoped that a real relationship would someday develop."

"Ok." She waited expectantly for him to go on.

"He would never share you with another man. He believes in monogamy for both partners, so he would never be with you if he was seeing someone else, either."

"I know that," Kathryn said, narrowing her eyes. Suddenly, Mark didn't seem so uneasy discussing the things that went on between a man and a woman.

"Nothing meaningful will ever happen if you can only see each other a few times a year, and Steve has never seemed very interested in leaving the LAPD," Mark continued, deliberately oblivious to Kathryn's piercing gaze.

"Do you think that's because no one has ever suggested it?" Kathryn hated the hopeful, almost pleading tone in her voice.

"No, I don't," Mark told her flatly, "but you'd have to ask him to be sure."

Kathryn nodded, and Mark finished up. "Being fond of someone usually isn't enough to make a life together, no man wants to know he was your second choice, everyone deserves to be happy, and everyone deserves to be loved more than anything in the world."

Kathryn frowned. "You're talking about Winnie, aren't you?"

Mark shrugged. "You never said you loved him, but that doesn't mean you don't."

Kathryn slouched back in her chair in a most unladylike fashion and sighed. "So what do I do?"

Chuckling slightly, Mark got up from the table, and, patting her on the shoulder said, "That's for you to figure out, Sweetie."

"Thanks a lot," the glum tone told him that she didn't feel like he had helped her very much, but as he walked away, she caught his hand and looked up at him. "I do feel better, thanks."

"Just remember, water, fruit, yogurt, eggs and whole-wheat toast."

Grinning up at him, she said, "The world's best hangover cure."

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

Cheryl smiled as she watched her partner sleep. Sometime around John McClane's 'Yippie-ki-yay' line, she had been alerted to his somnolent state by a soft snore, and, having seen Bruce Willis catch the bad guys and reunite with his wife in time for Christmas several times before, she had decided to turn down the volume, stretch out beside him, prop her head on one hand, and observe.

His hair was tousled and getting a little longer than he usually kept it, and she wondered if he would be surprised that she noticed. One lock of hair was curling into his left eye, making the lid twitch frantically. Careful not to disturb him, she reached out and moved it away, allowing her fingers to trail back through the soft brown hair, around the ear, and caress his jaw with the backs of her fingers. In his sleep, he turned his head and nuzzled against her hand, and she smiled.

Though she would never admit it to anyone, Cheryl had been observing Steve Sloan since before he knew who she was, and not just because he was easy to look at, either. She had joined the LAPD knowing she wanted to make detective one day, and by the time she was ready for her sergeant's exam, he had already made quite a name for himself in the department. Even if she never got to know him, she would have looked to him as a mentor and role model.

By the time she was partnered with him, Steve had already caught the Casanova Killer, the Clown Killer, and another serial killer who found his victims by their webcam sites. He'd arrested a DA who had executed a Russian mob hit man she couldn't convict, a SWAT team sharp shooter who'd killed one of his subordinates so he could be with the man's scheming wife, and a police captain and a city councilman who were in cahoots to oust Chief Masters by making him look dirty. He'd apprehended a hit man who used terminally ill patients to kill his targets, stopped Carter Sweeney twice, and would have toppled the Ganza crime family if Gordon Ganza hadn't been killed by one of his own people before Steve had recovered from a hit man's bullets. Even so, before he had fully returned to health, he had managed to stop Ian and Malcolm Trainor in the process of stealing Ganza's assets.

Cheryl couldn't believe her luck when she was assigned to work homicide with the man she had so long admired. They had clicked immediately, and their record together had had quite a few high points over the years. Though others in the department, jealous of Steve's, and later Steve's and her, success claimed he wouldn't have gotten anywhere without his dad's help and police connections, Cheryl knew Steve was a shrewd investigator in his own right. He might not have inherited his father's gift for intuitive leaps in logic, but he had the same keen intellect, which most people failed to notice because his athletic good looks gave the impression that he was a dumb, muscle bound jock.

One thing Cheryl knew that few others in the department realized was that, besides helping Steve with his more difficult cases, Mark Sloan, and by association, Jesse Travis, and Amanda Bentley, also helped to keep her partner sane. Steve felt the pain of each life lost to senseless violence more keenly than most people knew. Of course, he never lost control, unless it was in a fit of temper, but she could always tell the moment the tragedy of the death struck him. The sparkling blue eyes would dim and normal his friendly expression would become a somber mask. Most people thought the transformation was just the professional façade he had to maintain in order to do his job, but after years of working with him, she knew it was really his way of dealing with the distressing realization that one human being could do such horrible things to another.

The years had taken their toll on Steve in subtle ways the casual observer might not notice, but Cheryl was his partner and she could tell. Even when he smiled and was supposed to be having fun, sometimes there was a hard set to his jaw, a coldness in his eyes, or a tension in his shoulders that belied all the senseless tragedy he had seen. It was hard for a cop, used to dealing with the dregs of humanity, to be optimistic. Steve still managed to remain hopeful, and his work with at-risk kids at the Never Say Die gym proved his continued faith in people, but Cheryl could tell that every year, he had to work harder to hold on to that faith. She wouldn't be surprised if one day, he decided to retire from the force out of the blue, simply because he was sick and tired of seeing the rotten things people did out of greed, lust, and envy.

Steve shifted slightly in his sleep, and the comforter slipped down from around his shoulders, and Cheryl smiled again. In repose, Steve looked younger than his years. In fact, with his face relaxed, without the furrowed brow and thoughtful, almost suspicious expression that he always wore when working, he looked much too young to have had such a long and storied career in such a physically and emotionally demanding profession. She could only hope she would look as good when she had his years and experience.

Cheryl felt something intensely intimate in this moment as they shared a bed for no other reason than that they were keeping each other company. She felt the implicit trust her partner was showing her in letting her watch over him while he slept, and it started her thinking about other things, other possibilities for them. She wondered how things would have been different if they had worked in the same squad but with different partners. Would either of them have had as much professional success? Would they have had a different personal relationship?

In the space of two breaths, a lifetime of possibilities flashed through her mind, and her smile turned into a wide grin. They would either have been great together, or they would have driven each other mad. She gently pulled the comforter back up around Steve's shoulders, kissed the tip of her index finger, and placed it softly against his lips. She laughed silently when his lower lip pulled in under her feather-light touch and wondered if he had sucked his thumb when he was a baby. She slipped off the bed and crept soundlessly out of the room, then, with a sigh, she turned and prepared herself to go back and face Detective Vasquez and his pie charts again.


	6. A Horrible Experience

**Chapter Six: **A Horrible Experience

"Well, Steve," Wil Erickson said as he looked at his patient's chart, "you seem to be doing quite well. No sign of fever, all vitals normal, but . . . "

When his doctor trailed off, Steve became slightly alarmed. "But what, Doc?"

"Well, your blood pressure isn't technically low, but it is on the very low side of normal. I don't see any indication of infection, but it has me a little worried. What have you been doing today?"

Steve tried not to look embarrassed as he answered, "Sleeping, mostly." When Wil frowned, Steve knew more explanation was expected. "We had tickets to a show last night," he said. "I guess I overdid it a bit. I went down to the hotel's dining room for breakfast, and it was all I could do to stay awake until I got back to my room. My partner came to check on me a little later, we talked a while, watched a movie. I fell asleep about halfway through _Die Hard_, and didn't wake up again until it was time to come here."

"I see. And have you been experiencing any achiness, dizziness, lingering nausea?"

Steve shook his head. "No, not at all. I was just really tired today."

Wil nodded. "Then you are probably right. Chances are you just overdid it, but if you start to feel ill, do not hesitate to come in and get checked out, all right?"

"Ok."

"Good, now let's take out that drainage tube. Lie back for me, please."

Steve did as he was told and winced slightly as the single suture that looped around the tube and held it in place was clipped and pulled out. Then his doctor loomed over him, and with a sympathetic look said, "Now, I have to warn you, most of my patients have said this next bit is really a horrible experience. I'll try to get it over with as quickly as possible, but you need to brace yourself, ok?"

Steve nodded, took a deep breath, and clenched his hands tight on the edges of the exam table. He felt Wil take a firm grasp on the tube.

"Ready?"

Steve nodded again. He held his breath as he felt the tube sliding out of his body, snaking its way through him, slithering around his organs. In the end, he couldn't resist the urge to groan, "Ohh, God."

And then it was over. Steve was trembling from the weird sensations, sweating, and feeling a little nauseous, but it was over.

"Ok, Steve, I'm going to send a nurse in to put fresh dressings your surgical wounds," Wil said lightly. "Keep them covered until they are healed, and see your doctor at home in about a week or ten days for a final checkup. If everything is still ok, then you should be fit to go back to work, though I would recommend that you take it easy for a couple more weeks."

"You mean that's it?" Steve asked.

"Yeah," Wil nodded. "Why? Did you have some other concerns you wanted to discuss?"

"Well, no, but it's only been a little over two days since you operated on me. How can I be well that fast?"

"The biggest difficulty with gallbladder removal has always been the surgical wound," Wil explained. "In the traditional open procedure, I would have had to make an eight inch incision and cut across the abdominal muscles. With the laparoscope, I can make a few small incisions and remove the gallbladder through a half inch opening and never have to cut into the muscle tissue at all." Wil gave a lopsided smile and concluded, "It's not much worse than having your navel pierced."

Steve shuddered at the thought of having a bellybutton ring. "Ok, then, I'll see my regular doctor in a week. You'll forward my records to Community General Hospital in LA?"

"Of course," Wil said.

"And I am still ok to give my presentation tomorrow, right?"

"You can do anything you feel up to, Steve, including sex." Steve frowned, and Wil grinned. "I noticed the way your two lady friends were looking at you the other night, and you know what they say: What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. If the opportunity, uh, arises, and you want to take advantage of it, don't let this surgery, uh, stand in the way. Just take a break if you feel you need one."

"Yeah, right," Steve replied, not at all sure he understood everything the doctor was talking about, and not entirely comfortable with asking him to elaborate. He never noticed the self-satisfied smirk his surgeon wore or the small, bloody square of gauze he tossed into the trash on his way out.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

"So, are you giving your presentation tomorrow, then?" Cheryl asked with equal parts of surprise and dismay in her voice as the friends sat around a table in the hotel dining room, enjoying the buffet.

"Yep," Steve responded, taking a bite of one of the two coconut-fried shrimp he had allowed himself, "Doctor Erickson said I was all right to do anything I felt up to, and he did mean anything, from what I gather." The last was said with a bit of embarrassment and an involuntarily suggestive tone, and looks of confusion quickly shifted to amusement.

"Speaking of, uh, anything," Ron began awkwardly as he watched his hands break apart a crusty roll, "has anyone seen Kathryn today?"

Cheryl couldn't conceal the snort of laughter that came with the memory of the woman's bizarre, almost sexually desperate behavior of the previous evening, but a glare from Steve quickly quelled her humor.

"I spoke to her this morning," Mark said. "I have a feeling she's a little embarrassed." Studiously avoiding his son's gaze, he added, "Apparently, she's second-guessing some of her decisions and it's left her feeling a bit . . . off balance."

"You sure you don't mean _un_balanced?" Ron suggested.

"Whatever you want to call it," Mark said, piercing him with a cool, blue gaze, "I think the best thing, certainly the kindest thing, all of you could do would be to just carry on as if nothing had happened next time you see her."

"Speak of the Devil," Cheryl murmured, and a moment later, Kathryn, buffet plate in hand, was standing at their table, between Mark and Ron.

"Is there room for one more?" she asked in a tone of forced brightness.

Mark smiled warmly up at her. "There's always room for a friend," he said and slid his chair closer to Steve's.

When Ron didn't move, Kathryn pulled up a chair from a nearby table and awkwardly squeezed herself in between him and the old doctor. Finally, it dawned on him that he should have made room, and muttering an apology, he slid over closer to Cheryl.

A waiter came over, poured a glass of water, and took Kathryn's drink order, "Diet soda, please."

For a few minutes, the only sounds at the table were the soft clink of cutlery and the quiet sounds of chewing. Eventually, the waiter brought Kathryn's soda and as she became absorbed in chasing the bubbles with her straw, she said to her companions, "I wouldn't blame you if you had turned me away."

"Now sweetie, what kind of friends would we be then?" Mark asked sympathetically.

Kathryn shrugged. "Maybe the smart kind," she said. "Look, I know I made an ass of myself last night, and I am sorry if it made you feel uncomfortable. I promise it won't happen again."

Mark looked from Ron to Cheryl to Steve, and then he jerked his head in Kathryn's direction to indicate that someone should say something. Finally catching his cue, Cheryl said, "It must have been the margaritas."

"Yeah," Steve agreed, "everyone has the right to act foolish once in a while. It's no big deal."

"Don't give it another thought," Ron chimed in.

Slowly, Kathryn lifted her gaze, and seeing the warm, forgiving smiles that greeted her, she looked over to Mark, nodded her head slightly, and grinned. "Thanks, guys," she said appreciatively, then looking at Steve, asked, "So, are you gonna be able to give your presentation tomorrow?"

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

"Ok, that looks good," Steve said as the assistant the hotel had provided focused the first of his slides. Then he rubbed his eyes as his vision blurred. He'd been keyed up about his presentation last night and hadn't slept very well. For some reason, while he could face down a maniac with a gun and not even flinch or conduct a press conference without blinking an eye in spite of the bright lights and flashbulbs, facing an audience of his peers always scared the hell out of him.

"Could you get someone to check on the A/C in here?" he asked, loosening his tie and pulling on the collar of his shirt. "It's getting kinda hot. Aren't you hot?"

"Actually, I'm comfortable, Sir," the young man said in a squeaky adolescent voice, and when Steve glared at him, he wisely added, "but I'll get it checked out anyway."

Steve walked up on stage and began to pace nervously. In short order, he sat down at the table that held his materials, handouts, notes, and the like. He ached from tossing and turning all night, half dreading the morning, half anticipating it excitedly, and he needed to sit down and rest a bit. His dad would probably give him hell for pushing ahead despite his fatigue, but if he was a good patient and went straight back to bed when he was finished, he shouldn't get in too much trouble.

"The manager says the air conditioning is working perfectly, Detective Sloan," his young assistant called to him from the entrance to the meeting room, "but he can adjust it to lower the temperature if you like."

"I like," Steve called out adamantly, and added, "and I could use a pitcher of water if you don't mind." That coconut-fried shrimp had been a mistake last night, but he wasn't about to mention that to his dad. He knew enough to stay hydrated and didn't want to worry anyone more than he already had on this trip.

As the youth scurried off, Steve began going through his notes, looking for things he could cut out to shorten his lecture, knowing that he wouldn't be able to go the full hour as he had originally planned. As he reached across the table to pull his notebook closer, the spot on his side where the drainage tube had been bumped against the table, and he hissed in pain. As he'd changed the dressing earlier in the morning, he had noticed that the edges of the hole in his side were red and puffy, probably irritated from the friction of the tube sliding out the previous day. If it didn't get better soon, he would ask his dad to look at it for him.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

"Where's Steve?" Kathryn asked as Mark joined her, Ron, and Cheryl for breakfast.

"Oh, I don't think he's going to be joining us this morning," Mark said, the humor in his voice telling them all that, whatever was wrong, their friend was all right.

Ron couldn't resist a small laugh as he looked across the table and asked, "Was it the shrimp? I know you told him not to eat the shrimp."

"Oh, he's feeling fine," Mark deadpanned, but then began chuckling, "if being as nervous as a cat in the dog pound qualifies as fine."

Cheryl began laughing with him. "I just don't get it," she said, shaking her head. "Put him in front of an armed lunatic or a room full of reporters eager for a juicy story on a high profile murder, and it's not a problem. Put him in front of a room full of cops, and he wigs out every time."

"Is he gonna be all right?" Kathryn asked, now more concerned for her friend's dignity than his health.

"Oh, yeah, he'll get it together," Mark said, calmly, "but he's got a pretty serious case of butterflies right now. There's no way he's gonna eat until it's over."

Ron laughed in surprise. "I never would have guessed that Sloan suffers from stage fright."

"I think there's a lot of things about Steve that you would never guess," Mark said cryptically.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

"And, uh, as you can see, uh . . . " Steve trailed off and swayed at the podium for a moment.

"I thought you said this was nothing he couldn't handle," Kathryn hissed at Mark from the back row.

"I don't think this is stage fright," Mark whispered back and got up from his seat.

Steve closed his eyes, hoping they would focus when he opened them again. He reached a shaking hand up to wipe the sheen of perspiration from his face, and looked out at the audience. As the world lurched to the left, he saw a white-haired gentleman rise from his seat and move forward.

"Dad," he murmured, then he listed to the right and hit the floor with a thump.

"You, call 911," Mark pointed at one of the hotel staff and began giving orders before he even got to the stage.

"Cheryl," he barked as he reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and tossed it to her, "Find my card key, let yourself into my room and get my medical bag. It's in the bottom of the armoire."

On the steps, he called, "Ron, get these people out of here, and as he dropped to his knees beside his son, he said, "Kathryn, help me, please."

As the hotel employee and his friends got to work, Mark began assessing his son's condition. The first thing he noticed was that Steve was much too warm.

"What can I do?" Kathryn asked as she joined him beside Steve's prone form.

"Get that picture of water off the table and find a rag or something to dip in it," he commanded as he began loosening Steve's tie and unbuttoning his collar. "He's burning up." Looking up at another of the hotel staffers, he asked, "Can you turn off these hot lights, now, please?"

As the young man scrambled off to the light control panel, Kathryn retrieved the pitcher and, after looking around for a moment, snatched the silk pocket- square out of Mark's breast pocket and plunged it into the water. Wringing out the excess water, she gently bathed Steve's face as Mark continued loosening his clothes in an effort to cool his fever.

"Dear God!" Mark gasped as he finished opening Steve's shirt, raised his undershirt, and removed his bandages to inspect his surgical wounds.

"What is it?" Cheryl asked breathlessly as she arrived with the medical bag and dropped to her knees beside her friend. Ron stayed at the door to the meeting room keeping the curious onlookers at bay.

"He's got a wound infection," Mark told her as he inspected the fiery red trails of inflammation that wended their way out from under the cover of Steve's bandages, "and for him to be this sick, this fast, he must have gone septic."

Mark checked his son's blood pressure and pulse as he watched his breathing carefully. Then he placed the probe of an aural thermometer in Steve's ear. After a few seconds, it beeped.

"It's over one hundred and three. Where is that damned ambulance?"

As if his words had conjured it into being, a siren suddenly reached their ears, and in a few moments, the EMTs were in the room, gently examining Steve, taking down the notes Mark gave them about his recent surgery, starting an IV, and loading their patient onto the gurney. Mark trailed along beside them as they rushed Steve to the ambulance, not even glancing at Ron, Cheryl, and Kathryn to say goodbye.

With the room suddenly empty and quiet, Ron glanced from one woman to the other and said, "I'll drive." The ladies nodded their acceptance and together, the three of them filed out of the meeting room.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

He knew he was awake before he opened his eyes. The sounds were familiar, but strange. He knew he was in a hospital, but the rhythm of the noises was different somehow. The place didn't sound like home. Didn't smell or feel the same either. The mattress seemed lumpier, the sheets coarser, and he thought they used a different brand of antiseptic cleanser. In his mind, he smiled ruefully to think that he had spent so much time in Community General over the years that he could identify it by scent alone, the same way an old, blind dog could find its bed.

He felt tired, heavy. So heavy that it seemed his leaden limbs were sinking down into the mattress. He felt a crick in his neck and a crimp in his back, but he just couldn't summon up the energy to move, so he just lay there and listened to the noises around him.

"I'm so sorry, Doctor Sloan," a vaguely familiar voice said, bringing Steve out of a light doze, "Knowing how cavalier he can be about his health, I can't help but think that I should have imposed more restrictions on him. Even if they were arbitrary, maybe . . . "

_Cavalier? Cavalier! I even followed doctor's orders this time . . . Well, I tried to . . . I guess I should have canceled the presentation, but really, that was my whole purpose in coming to this conference!_

"No, Wil, nothing you could have done would have prevented this," Steve heard his dad reply. "The source of the infection could have been anything, even Steve's own skin. We all know how prevalent staphylococcus aureus is. As long as we don't see a pattern throughout the hospital or among your patients, we can conclude that it has nothing to do with you, but if there are any new cases, you should have your hospital pathologist check to see if they are staying at our hotel."

"I know, and I'll do that," Wil replied, "but I can't help feeling responsible for this. At least his fever is coming down, so we know he's responding to the antibiotics."

"Yes, he should be waking up any time," Mark responded.

Recognizing his cue, Steve slowly opened his eyes. "Hey, Dad."

He saw a figure melt away into the shadows of his room as his father leaned over him and grinned. "Hey yourself."

"What happened?"

"What do you remember, Son?"

Steve gave it some thought, licked parched lips, sucked on the straw that his dad held before him, and asked more than recalled, "I passed out during my presentation, didn't I?"

"Yeah, you did."

"How long ago?"

Mark looked at his watch and briefly did some mental math. "About, ohhhh, thirty-six hours, I guess."

"Man!" Steve exclaimed softly. "Sorry." He frowned and after a moment asked, "Cheryl, Ron, and Kathryn? Where are they?"

"They left after lunch, Son," Mark explained. "You were still sleeping, but your fever was already coming down. I told them to go on their way and that there was no need to worry."

"Oh, ok, that's good, then." Steve felt a slight pinch in the back of his right hand and looked down. From there, bleary eyes followed the tube up to the IV stand. There were two bags hanging from the crossbars, one full of clear fluids, electrolytes, nutrients, and medication, he supposed, and a smaller one containing something dark and viscous. He squinted, trying to make sense of what he saw. It took a minute for him to comprehend, and then, "Blood? You had to give me blood? I don't understand."

Mark sighed patiently and began to explain. "You developed a staph infection around your surgical wounds," he said. "It turned into TSS overnight. We had to give you blood to combat the toxins in your system."

"TSS?" Steve echoed on the only thing he had really grasped, an acronym he didn't recognize.

"Toxic Shock Syndrome," Mark elaborated. "An overgrowth of normally harmless staphylococcus aureus releases toxins into the blood stream resulting in a sharp drop in blood pressure depriving vital organs of the oxygen they need to survive. It's usually associated with menstruating women . . ."

"Ok, you can stop now!" The look on Steve's face said he was about ready for another nap, but the tone of voice indicated clearly his discomfort.

Mark chuckled at his son's obvious, and typically male, squeamishness. "Anyway, you are responding well to treatment, and you should be ready to go home in a week or so."

"A week? But I just had surgery and he released me the next day."

"That was just your gallbladder. This is systemic," Mark pointed out.

"Oh." Steve's lids were growing heavy, but another thought came to him. "I wasn't being cavalier," he said. "I thought it was nerves . . . and the coconut-fried shrimp."

"Uh-huh," Mark placated him. "You just get some rest. You'll feel better soon."

Steve's eyes flitted open once more, and he offered his dad a small, but genuine smile. Then his heavy lids fell, and after a minute, his whole face went slack with the mask of sleep.

Mark maintained his smile until he was certain his son was out, then his features rumpled into a frown. How did Doctor Erickson know Steve was 'cavalier about his health'? How had Steve gotten so sick, so quickly? He picked up the chart, and read it through twice, and seeing no indication of foul play, he tried to shrug off his suspicions. As his eyes came to rest on the signature, _Wilfred Erickson_, he grunted softly.

"No _wonder_ he prefers Wil."

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

"Las Vegas does have its own police department, does it not, Detective?"

"They do, but this is my partner, Sir, and Doctor Sloan is convinced that someone is trying to kill him," Cheryl answered.

"It seems like awfully tenuous evidence to me," Newman told her.

"His hunches are usually right, Sir, and he has proven far more with far less in the past."

"I don't know," Newman hesitated. "I respect Doctor Sloan and appreciate his efforts on behalf of the department, to a point, but if he is wrong and he draws us into it, then it looks like the LAPD is going out of its way, and out of its jurisdiction, to harass an innocent civilian on the basis of an old man's paranoid delusions."

"If he is right, we will have caught an escaped murderer."

Newman remained quiet, weighing his options.

"I'll use my vacation days and pay for the flight myself," Cheryl told him. "We'll only use the file for comparison purposes, if Doctor Sloan can get his prints from something."

When the captain still didn't reply, she added, "If Mark is right, Steve's life is in danger, Sir."

That settled it for Newman. "You have a week, and give my regards to Lieutenant Sloan and his father."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." Cheryl was out the door before Captain Newman could dismiss her.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

"You want me to come to Las Vegas to do _what_?" Amanda couldn't help the rising tone of incredulity in her voice. "I am not going to ask Steve's surgeon why he chose the laparoscopic procedure over the open one, Mark. You know as well as I do that Steve could have gotten that infection from anywhere."

Jesse came up to her, curious and grinning, and she turned away from him. She knew he would continue to eavesdrop unless she asked him to leave, and she wouldn't begrudge him the opportunity to listen in and find out about his best friend's condition. Still, that didn't mean she had stare at his puppy dog eyes pleading with her to take him along to Vegas even as she tried to convince Mark that he didn't need her there because he was being paranoid anyway.

"But he _is_ cavalier about his health, Mark," she said, and on that understatement turned slightly toward Jesse to scowl at him when she heard a snort of laughter from his direction.

"Oh. I see your point . . . No, I don't suppose he would know, unless he knew Steve, that is . . . Wilfred Erickson . . . Well, no wonder he prefers Wil!" This time she turned fully around and gave Jesse a glare that, to her satisfaction, made him cower over his charts.

"Oh? Oh. Why, so it does . . . I'll be on the next flight, Mark. You just take care of yourself and Steve . . . You don't need to thank me, Mark, that's what friends do for each other . . . I'll see you soon."

"So, when do we leave?" Jesse asked as his friend hung up the phone.

"'We'? Jesse, what makes you think 'we' are going anywhere?"

"Well, you were just on the phone with Mark. Mark is in Las Vegas with Steve. Steve is sick, and you just told Mark you would be on the next flight."

"Right. _I_ was talking to Mark and _I_ told him _I_ would be on the next flight."

"Amanda, Steve's my best friend. I'm worried about him, too." Jesse gave her the puppy dog eyes.

"Oh, all right!" Amanda gave an exasperated sigh, and relented, which she had intended to do anyway. She had just wanted to punish her young colleague a bit for listening in on her conversation without being invited. "You make the reservations. I have to arrange a sitter for the boys."

She couldn't help but smile back at the grateful, eager, boyish grin she got as Jesse picked up the phone and started dialing his travel agent.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

Steve slumped in his bed and made faces at his dinner tray. Nothing on it looked even remotely appetizing. The 'broth' that they had given him appeared to be a bullion cube in water, and he questioned whether there was any organic content whatsoever. It was in all probability mostly sodium chloride with a small amount of caramel coloring. The only protein source appeared to be the ubiquitous gelatin, which was delivered in stiff cubes, possessing unnaturally bright colors, brighter than the original fruits from which the artificial flavors were supposedly derived. Today's flavor was green, and Steve was fairly certain it was the same shade of green as the toxic waste that had turned some average guy into a hideous villain with superpowers in some recent movie. He couldn't help but wonder what those dyes did to a person's insides, and he couldn't understand how a hospital could possibly justify serving it to sick people under the pretense that it would help them get well.

Of course, it could have been a nice, juicy t-bone and baked potato, or even Community General's meatloaf, and it wouldn't have held any more appeal for him. Mid-afternoon, his fever had spiked, leaving him nauseous, and he had tried valiantly--and foolishly, his father had reprimanded him--to be stoic about his discomfort. The medication he was given when one of the nurses came by to check his vitals had lowered his fever again, but his nausea only relieved itself when he deposited the meager contents of his stomach into an emesis basin his father just barely managed to find in time.

Now, he had no appetite for anything, and, more alarmingly, shortly after he threw up, the phlebotomist had come in and drawn large amounts of blood and spoke to his dad in cryptic terms about tests. When he had questioned his father about it, he had received the disturbing news that they were concerned he might have developed yet another infection which they needed to identify in order to treat it. He was sure then that Mark was holding something more back, but he didn't want to ask for fear of upsetting him.

"You have to eat, Son, to keep your strength up."

"I thought that's what the IV was for, Dad," Steve replied sullenly.

"It is, but only as back up," Mark agreed. "Conventional medical wisdom says if the digestive system works, use it."

Steve eyed his tray suspiciously and finally asked, "If I eat the Jello, can I leave the broth?"

Mark considered the compromise on offer and finally said, "I think I can go along with that."

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

"Well, fancy meeting you here," Jesse said enthusiastically as his other seatmate settled in beside him.

Cheryl looked across at Amanda and asked, "You couldn't leave him behind, could you?"

"Have you ever tried?"

"Yes, and not very successfully," Cheryl admitted.

"So, how did you end up here?" Jesse asked. "I thought you were just getting back today."

"I was. Mark called me at home while I was doing my laundry. It seems he has made some very interesting observations. He told me he was calling _you_," she indicated Amanda and pointedly left out Jesse, "and I played a hunch. I called the airline with the next outgoing flight and asked them to seat me next to you, if you were on board."

"So, what does Mark think is going on?" Jesse asked eagerly.

Cheryl didn't say a word, just handed the young doctor the folder she was carrying.

"Oh, no way," Jesse gasped. "Why would they ever let him out?"

"They didn't," Cheryl told him. "He escaped."

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

As they stood by the carousel waiting to collect their bags, Kathryn turned to her traveling companion and said, "Uh, look, Agent Wagner . . . "

"I think you could call me Ron by now," he butted in.

"Oh, of course." She fumbled about for the right words. "Uh, I was hoping, Ron . . . I mean I would appreciate it if . . ." Ron was looking at her with a confused frown. _I can't believe he is so unimaginative that I have to spell it out for him. What did Doctor Bentley ever see in this guy?_ "My fiancée . . . Winnie . . . Uh, Wincel, that is . . . Well, he's going to meet us, and I was hoping you wouldn't . . . "

His eyes lit up, and, finally getting it, Ron schooled his features into his most humorless FBI expression and replied in his famous monotone, "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, Agent Wakely."

Breathing a great sigh of relief, Kathryn smiled, and said, "Thank you, Agent Wagner." _Maybe he's not so dull after all._

"Kat! Kitty Kat!"

Rolling her eyes to Agent Wagner, Kathryn kept her smile in place and turned its full force on the man who was supposed to be the love of her life.

"Winnie, darling, I missed you!"

"I missed you, too, Pet," Winnie replied.

_Funny, he doesn't look like a Winnie,_ Ron thought, _but what man ever does? He looks more like a banker. Maybe a Chase or a Rodney. Definitely too much education and not enough brains._

After the obligatory hugging, kissing, and saccharine baby talk of two people who were sickeningly in love, Kathryn stepped away from her fiancée and said, "Winnie, darling, this is Special Agent Ron Wagner. We work together from time to time, and the Bureau sent him to the conference with me. Agent Wagner, this is . . . "

"Wincel Atherton Eubanks, III," Winnie said in some kind of New England Ivy League accent that absolutely oozed money. "Delighted to meet you."

_Oh, the son of a son of a banker,_ Ron thought, showing some teeth in his smile, hoping it looked convincing. _I wonder what Kathryn sees in him. She never came across as the gold digger type. I wonder why she dumped Sloan for him._

"The pleasure's all mine, Mr. Eubanks," he said aloud.

"Please, Ron, call me Winnie," the man offered.

"Ok, Winnie," Ron echoed, and this time the smile was genuine, but the cough covering the laugh was obviously phony. _He probably thinks everybody in the world is glad to meet him. I can't imagine anyone calling him by that name and keeping a straight face._

"Geoffrey! It's about time," Winnie said sternly to a man in driver's livery who suddenly appeared beside them holding a suitcase matching Kathryn's other bags and bearing her monogram.

"Sorry, Mr. Eubanks, Sir. I had to park on the top deck."

"Winnie?"

Wincel sighed deeply, looked at Kathryn sadly, and said, "It's your friend . . . this Steve Sloan person. Apparently while you were winging your way eastward he took a turn for the worse."

"But he was doing fine when we left," Kathryn said and looked to Ron for confirmation. When the tall FBI Agent nodded, she continued, "He was still asleep in the hospital, but Mark assured us that he was doing well.

"Mark is his dad," she added when Winnie frowned at the new name.

"What exactly did they say was wrong with Steve, if you don't mind my asking?" Ron inquired.

Wincel turned to face him and said, "From what I could gather, he has had a relapse. He suddenly got very, very ill, and the medication they were giving him before doesn't seem to be working now."

Locking his gaze on Kathryn one again, he continued, "His condition is critical, Kitten. I knew you would be worried, so I had Mrs. Arbuckle collect some of your things that you had moved into my place, and I got you a ticket on the next flight back to Vegas . . . if you want to go."

"And you don't mind?" Kathryn asked, confused. "Every time I called from Vegas, you seemed to get all jealous and insecure. Why the change?"

Wincel shrugged. "Of course I do, mind, that is, but if you love something set it free, isn't that what they say?"

"I'm not some broken-winged bird you found in the garden, Wincel."

"No, Precious, you're not, but then, you never were really mine, either, were you?"

Having nothing to say to that, Kathryn just hung her head.

_Maybe he's smarter than I thought_, Ron thought. Then he realized Wincel was talking to him. "There is nothing I can do about your laundry situation, but if you wish to return with Kathryn, I am certain I can find you a seat on the plane."

Ron seriously considered the suggestion for a moment, then he shook his head. "Thank you for offering, but I can't. I have to report to my superiors on Monday morning, and I really don't think they would look kindly on me for going straight back to Vegas right now, circumstances notwithstanding." He turned to Kathryn and asked, "Are you going?"

She nodded.

"Then tell Mark he knows where to reach me if he needs to, and keep in touch. I'll see if I can make it out by Monday afternoon if he is still doing poorly."

She nodded again.

"Geoffrey, get the man's bags for him, and then bring the car round," Wincel commanded.

"Oh, that's not necessary," Ron told him. "I can manage."

"Nonsense. Geoffrey's going that way anyway, and he hasn't just flown several hours across the country."

Ron shrugged, nodded, shook Wincel's hand once more, said his goodbyes, and left Kathryn and him to have a conversation that he doubted either of them really wanted to hold.

"You love him, don't you?"

"But I love you, too, Winnie."

"But there it is, that 'too,' or perhaps it's 'two', as in second."

"I never meant to hurt you," she told him.

"Oh, I know that, Kitty Kat, but no man wants to know he's your second choice. We have had fun, and I know you are fond of me, but there has been very little passion in our romance; and being fond of someone isn't really what you need to make a life together, is it?"

Kathryn gave him a narrow look and asked, "Mark didn't happen to talk to you about anything besides Steve's condition, did he?"

The confusion on Winnie's face was convincingly authentic. "No, he didn't, why?"

"Because he told me almost the same thing the other day."

Winnie smiled at her. "Then you should listen to him because he's right, but I figured it out when you told me to go to hell on Wednesday night and then didn't call back the rest of the week."

Shamefaced, all Kathryn could do was apologize. "I'm so sorry, Winnie. After that, I couldn't just . . . I didn't know how . . . Over the phone . . . "

"Hush, Love. Some things aren't meant to be, they are the way they are because, well . . . that's the way they are. It's neither your fault nor mine, it just is what it is." He moved forward and kissed her softly, tenderly on the cheek.

"Now, let's get you on that plane back to Vegas."


	7. Plans Gone Awry

**Chapter Seven: **Plans Gone Awry

"What meds is he on?" Jesse asked quietly.

"Linezolid and vancomycin," Mark replied, without looking up. His voice was also soft, even though a drum and bugle corps could have been playing right there in the room and not disturbed his son. About an hour after dinner, Steve's fever had spiked extremely high again, and he'd spit up the vivid green Jello he'd had for dinner. About an hour after that, he'd gone into respiratory arrest and had to be put on a ventilator. Since then, he had been moved to the ICU and slipped into a coma.

"Both? Really?" Amanda asked, surprised.

"Yeah," Mark replied, still watching Steve's chest rise and fall in time with the sounds coming from the ventilator. "That's another reason I think he was deliberately infected."

"Wait a minute, Mark, I don't think I understand," Cheryl whispered, looking over to her partner.

Mark didn't answer her, but reached out and took his son's hand instead.

"Staphylococcus bacteria is fairly common," Jesse explained. "It lives harmlessly on the skin in many people. For others, it causes boils, infected hairs and infected hangnails, sometimes pimples, and the like. An overabundance of staph in the system can overwhelm the body's ability to cope with the toxins it produces and cause Toxic Shock Syndrome."

Cheryl nodded. "That's what brought him back to the hospital in the first place."

"Right."

"But he was getting better."

"Yes, I know. But there are some strains of staph that are resistant to the drugs we commonly use to get rid of the infection," Jesse patiently explained. "They're called MRSA, or methicillin resistant staphylococcus aureus."

"You mean like the flesh-eating bacteria?"

"Well, that's a very melodramatic way of putting it that the media has used to sell papers and boost ratings," Amanda responded, "but yes, exactly like that."

"Well, of course that is awful, but I still don't see why it's suspicious," Cheryl replied.

"There are different strains of MRSA, and they each respond best to a different antibiotic," Jesse took over the explanation again. "They are becoming more common, but they are far from being epidemic diseases. The fact that Steve is on linezolid _and_ vancomycin indicates that he has contracted two different MRSAs."

"Which means someone wanted to make sure that he not only got sick," Cheryl was able to conclude now, "but also that the bug they gave him finished the job."

Amanda and Jesse nodded. Mark just continued watching his son.

"Ok. I'm going to get onto someone in the LVPD," Cheryl said, glad there was something she could do now that she understood what had happened. "I can't see a judge signing an arrest warrant based on such circumstantial evidence, but if you can collect something this guy throws away, like gloves or a syringe, we can get them to match it to the prints in our folder. Then we will have proof that he is who we think he is, and we can arrest him."

A nurse padded silently into the room on her soft-soled white shoes. "Folks, I'm sorry, I know you are all worried about Mr. Sloan, but patients in ICU are only allowed two visitors at a time."

"It's all right, nurse," Jesse said, "we'll be going soon. I promise." He flashed her a very worried version of his charming, boyish grin, and got a smile back.

"Five minutes," she told him softly, "and see if you can't get his father to go get some rest, would you? Becoming a patient himself won't do his son any good at all."

"I'll take care of it," Jesse told her. "You have my word."

Amanda and Cheryl nodded to the woman as she left, and then Cheryl crossed the room to where her partner lay unmoving in the bed. She felt something twist in her chest, and she silently warned him, _Don't you dare die on me, Sloan._ It was hard to believe that just two days ago, she had lain on the bed beside him and watched him sleep.

She had to swallow hard and blink back tears for a moment when all of the possibilities she had considered that day threatened to overwhelm her again. Years ago, when he'd injured his knee and then been deliberately poisoned with bacteria, she hadn't felt the same way because she hadn't known him so well. Now, though, the thought of losing all their potential, as friends, partners, and maybe someday something more, nearly broke her heart.

Leaning over, she kissed him gently on the temple and whispered, "Don't you dare die on me, Sloan. I have plans for you."

Straightening up, she turned sharply on her heel, and walked briskly out of the room, not speaking, but simply nodding goodbye to Jesse and Amanda as she headed off, intent on her mission with the LVPD.

Moving over to his friend's bedside, Jesse said, "Leave it to you to get in trouble on a vacation."

Of course, there was no response, but then, he wasn't expecting one.

"Look, buddy, I'm going to try to get your dad back to the hotel for some rest, but I will see you bright and early in the morning." He swallowed hard, hating the way he was feeling, hating that it seemed to happen so often with his friend. "You just focus on getting better."

He put a hand on Steve's shoulder and gave it a squeeze, and repeated, "I'll see you in the morning."

"I'm staying here," Mark said petulantly when Jesse turned to him.

"Mark, you need some rest," Jesse tried to cajole him.

"I'll rest right here," Mark insisted, never looking away form Steve's motionless form. "This chair is perfectly comfortable. We need some like it at Community General."

"It's not the same a lying down in a bed," Jesse argued. "You need some real rest."

"I'll rest here, Jess. Don't worry, I'll be fine."

"Mark, this isn't Community General," Jesse reminded him. "You don't have an office couch to catch a nap on, you can't have a cot brought into ICU, and you can't wander into the on-call room for some sleep."

"Mark," Amanda joined the discussion. "I'll stay with him overnight. I won't leave his side until you come back in the morning. He'll never be alone. I promise."

"It's not just that," Mark told her, his voice sounding strangled. "I can't not be here if . . . What if I'm not here and . . . " He couldn't continue the thought.

"Oh, Mark," Amanda said compassionately, taking him into her arms for a moment. "If that happens, and we have to believe it won't, but if it does, it won't matter whether you're here or not. He won't be alone, because I'll stay with him, and he knows how much you love him."

"But I need to be here," Mark protested again, still watching Steve as if to take his eyes off him for one moment would mean disaster, "in case . . ."

"Mark," Jesse interrupted, wanting his mentor to think about something besides the worst case scenario, "how is Steve gonna feel when he wakes up and finds out _you _have been hospitalized with exhaustion because you never left his side? Worrying yourself sick isn't going to help him at all now, and it will only upset him later."

Finally, Mark looked up, taking his eyes off his son for the first time, and desperate look on his face made something twist in Jesse's chest.

"You know he expects us to take care of you."

Mark nodded and stood up slowly. "O-ok, but we come back first thing in the morning, right?"

"Absolutely. I wouldn't have it any other way," Jesse agreed.

Finally, the old doctor moved around Amanda, bent over to give his son a kiss on the forehead, whispered something to him that neither Jesse nor Amanda could hear, and reluctantly left.

Amanda watched Jesse and Mark as they made their way down the hall of the ICU and out the double doors into the main corridor. Then she went back into the room, settled into the chair beside her friend's bed, and said softly, "Steve Sloan, you're my friend and I will love you forever, but if you . . ." She stumbled over her words, took a breath, and continued. "If you . . . leave us while your dad is resting, I will never forgive you."

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

"Just before I left, the boys reminded me of a story we had seen on TV about the Palms casino changing its name to PAM for a night in honor of Pamela Anderson and her fur-free, cruelty-free fashion show," Amanda told Steve in a conversational tone. It didn't matter that he wasn't answering, she just hoped that on some level he would know she was there and not feel so scared or alone. It was two in the morning, and talking to him helped her not to feel so scared and alone, too.

"She's a spokesperson for PETA, you know, which I think is a good thing. I want the boys to learn that everyone, even larger than life people," _Of course she's larger than life, thanks to the wonders of cosmetic surgery! _should believe in and support something bigger than themselves. Then, the next thing I know, they show her in a sort of mini-crop top that shows the bottom half of her breasts, just sort of hanging out there for the world to admire. Oh, and they showed Tommy Lee licking her face and her in some provocative pictures, too. Of course, I should have known that the video of the two of them in the bedroom would make an appearance, as well, but I swear, the blurb in the _TV Guide_ only mentioned her work with PETA."

"Hello there." Amanda jumped at the unexpected but respectfully quiet greeting, but managed not to cry out. The man in the doorway wore surgical scrubs and a friendly smile on his bearded face. "I'm Wilfred Erickson, Mr. Sloan's surgeon, but you can call me Wil."

Amanda blushed, embarrassed that the tall, tanned man had probably overheard her monologue. "I know he probably can't hear me," she said, "but there is always the chance. I am sure, somehow, he knows I am here and that he is not alone."

"I'm sure you're right, and you are?"

Smiling, she stood up to greet the handsome surgeon. As she moved around the bed, she extended a hand for him to shake. "Amanda Bentley. I am a close friend of Steve's. I work at Community General Hospital with his father, as head of pathology and Adjunct County Medical Examiner for Los Angeles."

"Well, Amanda, I'm sure Steve knows you're here, and if he does hear you, you have probably given him some very pleasant dreams."

Amanda blushed again, and, not knowing what to say, she looked back to her friend's still form.

"I was just going to check Steve's surgical wounds," Wil explained as he moved further into the room to take some latex gloves from a dispenser on the wall and a box of gauze sponges from a shelf nearby. "I need to make sure everything is all right under those bandages. I won't be more than a few minutes if you want to step out for a cup of coffee or something."

"Oh, that's ok," she said, remembering her promise to Mark that she wouldn't leave Steve's side. "I work with dead bodies all day. A little wound drainage doesn't faze me."

Wil looked at her dubiously, but then shrugged his shoulders and said, "Suit yourself." Then he went to work, moving back the covers and lifting Steve's hospital gown so he could remove the bandages and examine Steve's incisions.

As he was working, Amanda came to stand beside him, looked over his shoulder, and gasped. Wil hardly spared her a glance as he continued going about his business, gently pressing on the sides of the small cuts, forcing a bloody yellow substance out and wiping it away with the gauze pad.

"It's looking a little better this evening," Wil commented. "There isn't as much discharge as there was last night, and the striations are receding a little. He might just beat this thing without further surgery to clean it up."

"Oh, uh, that's good," Amanda said, and moved away to sit down because she was feeling a bit queasy.

Wil finished up what he was doing, covered Steve's wounds with fresh bandages, peeled off and discarded his gloves, and took the empty seat beside Amanda. "He really is doing better."

Amanda sniffled and dabbed at a tear. "I believe you," she said, "and I'm sorry. Things like that usually don't affect me, but I guess, because he's a friend . . . "

"It's always harder when it's someone you care about." He sat with her in silence for a little while, then, needing to fill the void, he changed the subject, "You know, Vegas is so over-the-top most people around here didn't even notice when they changed the Palms to PAM."

Amanda chuckled, snuffling back the last of her tears as she did so. "LA is kind of like that, too."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah. You can always spot a tourist because they'll do a double take and then whisper to their friends when they see a celebrity." As she sat there enjoying the companionship of the dashing physician, Amanda remembered that she was supposed to speak with him about something particular. "By the way, I wanted to ask you something about Steve's surgery."

"Ok, what did you want to know?"

"Well, I was just wondering, with all of Steve's old scars, did you ever consider using the open procedure, or did you just decide automatically to use the scope and do the best you could with that?"

Wil's posture became more erect, and his speech grew more clipped and formal. "Well, Doctor Bentley, as I am sure you are well aware, there was really no way of knowing how much trouble the adhesions from his previous injuries would present until we began working on him. As it turns out, while they did cause some resistance, they really weren't a problem, per se. The operation did take a little longer than most laparoscopic cholecystectomies, but I can assure you my decision to continue with the scope had nothing to do with his condition now. I wonder, Doctor, would you be questioning my judgment if I had used the open procedure and he had become sick? What if I had used the scope and he had recovered with no problems? Would you still be second guessing me then?"

Amanda turned on her most serene look, hoping it would hide the suspicion, anger, and fear that were surging through her now. "I'm sorry, Doctor. I really wasn't doubting you, it's just that, as a pathologist, I am always curious about why other doctors do the things they do."

Wil stood abruptly and tugged down on the top of his scrubs. "Yes, well, I apologize, too, but when you have a perfectly healthy patient just lying there in a coma," he gestured emphatically toward Steve, "you spend a lot of time second guessing yourself. Hearing someone else ask the same questions you have been asking yourself kind of makes you feel a little defensive."

Looking at his watch, he told her brusquely, "My break is over. Perhaps we shall see each other again before you leave Las Vegas."

"I'm sure we will." Amanda smiled and hoped it looked convincing. She didn't need the fingerprints from the gloves she was about to retrieve from the trash for Cheryl. She knew exactly who this man was and why he was trying to kill Steve.

"Yes, well, goodbye."

Amanda smiled slightly. "I'll see you later, Doctor." She leaned forward and took Steve's hand again, and, as the would-be killer walked briskly down the hall, she said to her friend. "Don't worry, Steve, we've got him now. That man won't hurt you again."

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

Captain Jim Brass hated this time of morning, when the night was over but the day hadn't yet begun, because too many things, bizarre, obscene, and criminal, could happen; but this was, according to the woman who had roused him out of bed with an urgent phone call, a matter of life and death. He strode briskly through the halls of the Las Vegas Crime Lab on his way to the conference room where he was supposed to meet Warrick Brown regarding the gloves that Cheryl Banks, the cop from LA, had brought him from Desert Springs Hospital. He actually knew Doctor Erickson, thought he was a likeable guy and a competent surgeon, and couldn't believe he might be the escaped that killer she was looking for, let alone that he was poisoning her partner with staph bacteria after removing his gallbladder; but he had seen stranger things happen, so he kept his own counsel on that matter. He also hadn't figured on bringing quite so much company with him to this meeting, but, while Cheryl was trying to appeal to his natural sympathy for a worried father, FBI Agent Kathryn Wakely had told him that she, Cheryl, and the two doctors were coming whether he liked it or not. There was a reason local cops never cared for the Feds.

When they entered the conference room, Brass realized that there weren't enough chairs for all of them, but that problem solved itself as three of his companions gently shepherded the old doctor, who looked as if he had slept in his clothes and only just rolled out of bed minutes before, into one of the seats. Brass took the other, and the third was left empty for Warrick.

"This place is so incredibly cool," the younger doctor, Jesse . . . Travers . . . no, Travis, said as he paced back and forth to the window trying to see what was going on out in the hall. "I wish I could look around some of the labs, see what they're doing."

"It's nothing we don't have in LA," Detective Banks said.

Doctor Sloan sat stoically quiet and Agent Wakely rolled her eyes impatiently.

"I know, but I have never really had the chance to tour the crime lab in LA," the young man almost pouted. After a quiet moment, his expression brightened and he asked, "Hey, I don't suppose you could . . . "

In the tone of someone who knew him all too well, Banks responded, "No, I could not."

Brass barely repressed a laugh. "Actually, Doctor Travis, Gil Grissom, the head of our crime lab got his start in LA," he told the young man. "Apparently he was a real wunderkind there. I guess he was the youngest coroner in the history of LA County or something like that."

"Really?" Looking back at Detective Banks, he said, "I'll bet Amanda would enjoy meeting him."

"Oh, I'm sure it would be a thrill for her," Brass said, and his sarcastic tone perplexed the young man and finally got him to be still for a moment.

"Actually, Doctor Travis, I don't care who works here or what cool toys they have!" Agent Wakely snapped. "I just want the proof we need to get a warrant so we can make an arrest and be sure Steve is safe."

Suddenly the young doctor looked like a whipped puppy, and Brass really felt for him. He could tell the kid was worried about his friend, and that the endless chatter was just an effort to keep the fear at bay. Wanting to reach out him, Brass said, "Look, kid, as soon as CSI Brown gets here, we'll know if this is your guy, and if it is, we'll go arrest him."

Before Jesse could respond, Warrick Brown walked in, and, after the introductions he said, "You gotta love latex. It holds prints like nothing else."

"And?" Cheryl pressed.

"I got ten perfect fingerprints off the gloves, and they match exactly with what's in your file," Brown said. "There's a multiple murderer practicing medicine at Desert Springs Hospital."

There was a collective sigh of relief from the four interlopers, and Brass said, "Ok, the four of you can go back to your hotel and get some rest or go to the hospital and look in on your friend. I'll have one of my men pick up a warrant and meet me at Doctor Erickson's house. He'll be back in prison within the hour."

Detective Banks, Agent Wakely, and Doctor Travis exchanged delighted, relieved grins, but the old man, Doctor Sloan, said gravely, "No, I want you to get him for trying to kill Steve."

"What?"

"Look, Doctor Sloan . . . "

"Mark, just let them send him back to jail," Doctor Travis said. "Steve will be safe then."

The old man looked up at his young friend and said, "Jesse, for whatever reason, in spite of the fact that he killed three people, the judge didn't sentence him to death. I guess he was hoping a man that intelligent would decide that he wanted to contribute something of value to society again someday, I don't know why! You know as well as I do that a life sentence doesn't really mean life anymore. If the parole board ever releases him, all of you, you, Amanda, Cheryl, and Steve, will be in danger again. If we get him for this though, for trying to kill Steve, Nevada will try and sentence him, too, and if California grants him parole, he will still have to be transferred here to do his time on those charges. This way, he will be in jail for the rest of his life, and Steve will be safe."

"But Mark, Steve will be in danger until we can prove what he did."

Doctor Sloan shook his head. "Steve will be fine. I have a plan."

For reasons he could not explain, Jim Brass had an eerie feeling that these people had done this before.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

It was six o'clock Sunday morning, and Amanda sat in the chair at her friend's bedside with an extra blanket the nurse had brought her draped around her shoulders like a shawl. She yawned and stretched and shook her head in an effort to wake herself up. It had been a long night for her, and she knew Mark had a long day ahead of him. She wondered if he or Jesse had managed to get any sleep at the hotel.

"I wish you had a window in your room," she told Steve. "If I could see the sun rising I wouldn't be so sleepy. Of course, I suppose it could just make me want to play cat and curl up in a patch of light and doze for the next eighteen hours."

"Maybe a cup of coffee would help," a voice from the hall suggested.

Amanda looked up and smiled, "Agent Wakely, I thought you had gone back to Washington."

"I did, but Winnie met me there with a suitcase full of clean clothes and sent me back."

"Because Mark called and told him Steve's condition was worse?"

"Yeah, and he knew I would want to be here."

"This Winnie must be a very understanding man," Amanda said, her tone implying that she knew there was more to the story.

"Oh, he is," Kathryn replied, making it clear that she didn't want to discuss the matter. "What do you say we go have that cup of coffee?"

Amanda smiled down at her sick friend and brushed some hair off his forehead. To her relief he felt noticeably cooler than the last time she had checked. "I won't be gone long, Steve. I promise." Then she adjusted the privacy curtains around his bed. "Coffee sounds wonderful, Kathryn," she said. "And I could do with a muffin or some toast, too."

"Come on, then," Kathryn jerked her head in the direction of the door. "My treat."

The two women spoke quietly as they walked down the hall together. When she saw a familiar face, Amanda slowed down and steered Kathryn across the hall.

"Doctor Erickson, this is Kathryn Wakely," she said, "a friend of Steve's from Washington."

The doctor smiled and nodded in recognition. "We've met," he said.

"Oh? I hadn't realized."

"Yes, he did Steve's gallbladder surgery," Kathryn explained, "and he beat the pants off of all of us at poker the next day."

"You're kidding me, even Steve?"

"Especially Steve," Kathryn gleefully affirmed. "It was quite a blow to his ego."

"Oh, I'm sure it was," Amanda agreed. Then turning to Wil, she said, "Doctor, I owe you an apology for last night. As a pathologist, it is my job to look for the cause of disease, and as a friend, well, I was worried and looking for someone to blame. I'm sorry."

"Don't give it another thought," Wil said, shaking his head. "I deal with worried friends and relatives all the time, and trust me, many of them have been much harsher with me than you were. How is he doing?"

Amanda smiled brightly. "Last night was uneventful. I think his fever is down some. He's doing well enough that I feel ok about slipping out to have some breakfast with Kathryn."

Wil looked surprised. "Really? That's good. I'm going to check on him as soon as I am done here. Perhaps I'll see you there after you've eaten."

Kathryn inclined her head and said, "Count on it."

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

Mark sat in the office on the floor above Steve's ICU room intently watching his son on the closed circuit television. It had only taken the LVPD's technical guy about fifteen minutes dressed as a hospital maintenance worker to install the miniature camera and run the cable through the conduit that carried the information from Steve's various monitors out to the nurses' station. The cable had then made a detour somewhere in the middle of the hall outside ICU, and instead of going across the ceiling and down to the ICU desk, it had run down the hall a few yards and up through the ceiling to where Mark was now.

While the tech was doing his technical things and Captain Brass was briefing his people, Mark had called Amanda on the hospital phone and told her to go along with Kathryn when she came to Steve's room. Now, Steve was alone and helpless, and Mark was having second thoughts. If Steve's doctor was the person Mark believed him to be, the man knew how easy it would be to determine that there was foul play involved if he introduced something directly into the IV bag or tubing. An intramuscular or subcutaneous injection would be a little harder to spot, but would just as certainly prove attempted murder. That could only mean that he would have to find another way to kill Steve, and Mark was worried that he couldn't possibly anticipate everything the man might try to do. If he missed something, if he didn't see what was happening in time, then his son could well be dead and his murderer could get off.

"He's coming," Brass said into the telephone when he spotted Wil on another screen that had been rerouted from a security camera in the hall.

That was another with his plan, Mark realized. With Steve in the ICU, the police couldn't employ their usual transmitters any more than the average person could make a cell phone call. That meant everyone involved in the operation had to be on a landline phone or in direct eye contact with someone who was.

"Ok," Brass said, "he's in the room. Wait for my order."

"What's he doing?" Jesse wondered aloud as Wil looked at each of the monitors and duly made his notations on Steve's chart.

"It looks like business as usual," Cheryl commented as he pulled back the covers and lifted Steve's hospital gown.

"Let's just wait and see what happens before we call off the dogs," Jesse suggested when the doctor on the screen gently pulled the bandages away from Steve's infected wounds.

"I knew it," Mark said darkly as Wil pulled out a glass vial and started sprinkling its contents onto the fresh bandages he had laid out to dress Steve's wounds. "I'm sure that is how he infected him to begin with."

Wil put a strip of adhesive tape on one of the contaminated sponges and, rising from his seat and heading for the door with more spryness than one would expect from a man his age, Mark said, "Stop him now."

"Now!" Brass barked into the phone. "Now! Now! Move! Take him!"

Brass' monitor showed people scrambling in the hall and a second later, on the monitor Mark, Jesse, and Cheryl had been watching, those same people piled into Steve's room and knocked the doctor to the floor. By the time they had him cuffed, Mark, Jesse, and Cheryl had joined them, and, because the room was now too full, Amanda and Kathryn stood at the door and looked in.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

By the time Jim Brass got down to the ICU, most of his people had gone back out into the hall to assure the nurses and visiting relatives that everything was ok. Wil Erickson was sitting sullenly in a chair in the corner with Detective Banks and Agent Wakely guarding him, and an officer from the LVPD was bagging the vial and bandages for evidence. Doctor Travis was cleaning his friend's wounds with a new bottle of betadine, and Doctor Bentley was preparing fresh bandages to cover them when he was done. Doctor Sloan was stroking his son's hair and speaking softly to him.

Walking up to the doctor who sat in the corner, Brass began the only job that apparently wasn't already taken. "Wilfred Erickson, a.k.a. Frederick Wilson, you are under arrest for practicing medicine without a license and the attempted murder of Steve Sloan."

"Add to that the unauthorized possession of hazardous biological materials," Jesse said, coming over to them with the bag that contained the vial Wil, now known to be Frederick, had used to contaminate the bandages.

"What was in it?" Brass asked.

"VRSA," Jesse informed him, "vancomycin resistant staphylococcus aureus."

"What happened to the other stuff?" Cheryl asked. "What was it before? M . . . "

"MRSA," Jesse supplied. "Steve still has a methycillin resistant staph infection, but the linezolid and vancomycin he is on are handling it."

"But why wouldn't they have handled that, too?" Kathryn indicated the container in Jesse's hand.

"Because some of these bugs only respond to a specific antibiotic," Cheryl said. "They're immune to others."

When Kathryn and Brass both looked at her in surprise, she just grinned and shrugged. "They explained it to me earlier."

"And she remembered it correctly," Jesse said. "But this particular strain of staph wouldn't have responded to the drugs Steve is on now. As weak as he is, it would have overloaded his immune system and killed him before we even realized he wasn't responding to treatment anymore."

Brass nodded, understanding now, "It would have entered his body through the open wounds and looked like he just couldn't cope with the infection he already had, so there wouldn't have been an autopsy, and no one would have suspected a thing."

"Except for Mark," Jesse beamed across the room at his friend, but Mark was too concerned with Steve to notice. "We're gonna have to find out later what tipped him off to begin with."


	8. Unfinished Business

**Chapter Eight: **Unfinished Business

Cheryl sat on the chair in Steve's room with her feet tucked up under her reading a magazine as her partner slept. His fever had broken late Sunday night, and he had woken up early Monday morning. After breakfast today, he was doing well enough to be moved to an intermediate care unit. He had grumbled a little when he found out that he would be on IV antibiotics for at least a week and out of work for at least six, but he had still been too weak and tired to put up much of a stink. Kathryn had come by to say goodbye before leaving for Washington again. She had some business to take care of but hoped to be back for a visit before long. Steve was still spending most of his time sleeping, which as far as Cheryl was concerned, was a good thing because it gave him time to build up his strength.

Since Steve had come out of his coma, Cheryl had received a couple of visits from Warrick Brown, the CSI who had matched the fingerprints from the gloves Amanda had retrieved with the ones in her file on Frederick Wilson. Over lunch at a place called the Montecito, she had learned that he was the only CSI on his team who had been born and raised in Las Vegas. As she stared into his beautiful, caramel-brown eyes, he had told her about the strict grandmother who had raised him after his mother's death and his teenage job running numbers for an illegal bookie, which he had kept secret from his grandma because she would have skinned him alive had she found out; and she knew this handsome man was showing her extraordinary trust.

Last night he had taken her dancing at a club run by one of his friends. Then they had gone to one of the casinos where he taught her a little about how to beat the odds at blackjack. When she asked him why he didn't place a bet, he quietly admitted that he was a compulsive gambler. Naturally, she had ended their visit to the casino on the spot, but at Warrick's insistence, the date continued.

_As they cruised the strip, admiring the neon light displays of the various casinos and hotels, she asked, "Why don't you leave Vegas to avoid temptation?"_

_He shrugged and told her, "It's home. I have a good job, I know someone in every hotel and club in the city, and I can use those connections to help me do my job better. I have friends here to save me from myself if I ever get in trouble. There's no need to leave. Why do you stay in LA?"_

_"Same reasons, I suppose," Cheryl responded coyly, "but then, I don't have any addictions of which LA would be the world capital."_

_Warrick conceded the point by inclining his head. "I'm managing ok, but I'd probably have to rethink things if the temptation became too much." As they passed the Luxor hotel, he pointedly changed the subject. "The Luxor has one of the most powerful beams of light in the world. Its several dozen 7,000 watt Xenon lamps last up to 2,000 hours each and they come to a total of 315,000 watts. The beam represents the Egyptians' belief that their souls will travel to heaven on its path."_

_Cheryl smiled. "I like that idea. It's kind of romantic." _

_"I kinda like it, too." Warrick smiled back at her then, and she leaned over so he could put his arm around her shoulders. _

That night she had found it hard to sleep.

Today, he had joined her for lunch at the hotel. He happened to be in the neighborhood because, to her amusement and Warrick's chagrin, Jesse had finagled a tour of the crime lab and he was giving the young doctor a ride back to his lodgings. Over some of the best burgers and fries she could ever remember having, their conversation had taken an interesting turn.

_"I really wish we had more time to get to know each other," he said regretfully, then dropped his voice to a conspiratorial tone, "and I don't mean just socially."_

_"Oh, really?" she said in surprise, trying to laugh it off._

_"Oh, yes." _

_His voice was so sexy and his eyes were so beautiful she almost went for it. Then her mind's eye flashed on an image of Steve giving her a grateful smile when she offered him a strawberry milkshake in the Japanese Gardens after Abby Chadway turned him inside out and stomped on his heart. It was so clear she could hear the birds and smell the freshly trimmed grass. Blinking her eyes and shaking her head to clear it, she gave Warrick a small smile and said, "I'm not sure I'm comfortable with the vibe I'm getting here. Maybe we need to back up a step."_

_"What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas," he tried once more._

_"So I've heard," she said, taking a sip of her iced tea, "but my conscience goes home with me."_

_He sat back in his chair, putting more distance between them. "Is there someone special back in LA?"_

_For reasons that escaped her, she told him, "I'm not sure, but if there is, I don't need to complicate things with a romantic fling in a strange city, no matter how attractive the man is."_

_Quite unexpectedly, Warrick laughed. "Women!" he said, as if the single word fully expressed his thoughts._

_Bemused, Cheryl asked him, "What about women?"_

_"All of you are amazing!"_

_"How do you mean?"_

_"Well, I have never known a guy who could reject a person and compliment them in the same breath." He ate a couple of fries, and shook his head. "Look, Cheryl, whoever this guy is, if he doesn't realize how lucky he is to have you, give me a call. Long-distance relationships are never easy, but I'd be happy to make the effort to have a chance with you."_

_Looking down at her plate when she felt the heat of a blush creep into her cheeks, Cheryl said, "I'll, uh, I'll keep that in mind."_

And now she was sitting here, watching her partner sleep.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

"So, Mark, you never said, how did you know it was Frederick Wilson?" Jesse asked as he shook half a bottle of hot sauce over the heaping plate of crawdads he had gotten from the Cajun table of the late night buffet. The hotel restaurant was having a regional American cuisine buffet, and there were a number of food combinations that he, Mark, and Amanda had ever seen before. His friends had been prudent and stuck with things they found familiar, but Jesse, being more adventurous than either of his companions, had deliberately sought out the most alien dishes available.

"Well, I didn't actually _know_ until Amanda got his fingerprints," Mark said, smiling his gratitude to his lovely friend and getting one of her beautiful smiles in return.

"You know what I mean," Jesse said as he studied his plate full of little red crustaceans with a perplexed look on his face, almost as if he wasn't sure what to do with them now that he had seasoned them to his satisfaction. "What made you suspect him?" Gamely, he picked up his fork.

"Oh, it was a lot of things," Mark said, "but I guess it started with his name. I just had the feeling there was something not right the first time I looked at Steve's chart. Cheryl read his name and said she wasn't surprised he preferred Wil. Then there was that comment about Steve being 'cavalier about his health.' That's when I figured out that _Wil_fred Erick_son _is a perfect anagram for _Frederick_ _Wilson_, but there were other things that happened between the one thing and the other."

"Like what?" Jesse didn't look up as he asked his question. He was too busy choosing his first victim. Mark was prevented from answering the question as the young man speared a crawdad. The resulting crunch made Amanda groan and shudder in disgust and the accompanying spray of juice caused Jesse to jump back, nearly upsetting his chair.

"Jesse!" Amanda reprimanded him as she scooted around the table to be closer to Mark.

"I'm sorry," he replied, "but what do you want me to do?"

"I don't know, but not that!" Amanda shuddered again and turned to Mark, "Anyway, Mark, what 'other things' tipped you off about Frederick?"

"Well, I guess his bedside manner had something to do with it," Mark said, his moustache twitching in amusement as he looked across the table at Jesse,who had selected another miniature lobster and was trying meticulously to break open the tiny claws to get at the meat inside. He silently wondered if the young man had ever seen the movie _Without Mercy_, and if he had, would he remember the scene where Kim Basinger and Richard Gere, lost in the Louisiana Bayou, had found nourishment in a pot of crayfish?

Jesse finally succeeded in cracking the shells on the claws, and was disappointed to find nothing worthwhile inside. Not to be defeated, he turned the mangled morsel over and began trying to pick the scales off the tail, certain that he would find something there.

"What was wrong with his bedside manner?" Amanda finally asked. Jesse had dropped out of the discussion; he was too busy playing with his food.

"He was smug, and too smooth," Mark answered shuddering as he saw Jesse give up on the crawdad's tail, pick up a fresh one, and bite into it with a crunch.

Amanda took one look at her young friend, saw that he was picking legs out of his teeth, and averted her eyes. "Can you please find something else to eat?"

"Actually, they taste pretty good," Jesse said defensively, "but the exoskeleton is kind of like eating an unpeeled shrimp. If you're not careful, they could cut up your mouth." He popped the remaining half of the crawdad in his mouth, and even Mark had to look away when one of the antennae remained sticking out between Jesse's lips.

Jesse crunched a couple of times, made a face, and tried unsuccessfully to discretely spit his food into a paper napkin. Making another face, he said apologetically, "Excuse me, guys, I think I still have a piece of chitin stuck in my throat."

Turning away from the table with a fresh napkin in hand, he cleared his throat several times like someone trying to get rid of the hard shell from a kernel of popcorn. Finally, he dislodged the sharp little piece of exoskeleton, balled up the napkin, and turned back to the table.

"What do you mean he was smug?" Jesse asked as gave his plate a sorrowful look, and shoved it away. Amanda sighed with relief.

"Oh, well," Mark said, slightly surprised his friend had actually managed to follow the conversation, "when he beat Steve at poker, he was smug, and when he explained his strategy, he took a didactic tone, like he was giving Steve a lesson."

"How could that have made you suspicious?" Jesse queried. "I wouldn't be able to resist doing the same thing if I could ever beat Steve at poker. No one who knows him could." Jesse frowned, then smiled. "But that was just it, wasn't it? As far as you knew, Wil Erickson didn't know Steve, they had no history, and he had no reason to be smug or to want to teach Steve a lesson, am I right?"

Mark nodded. "Of course, that's just one example. Every time I talked to the man, I just had a feeling something was very wrong."

"'Scuse me, Shug," said a friendly, fiftyish woman with wild brown curls piled high on her head and wrapped in a scarf as she approached Jesse.

Jesse smiled uncertainly up at the woman whose eyebrows had been plucked out and penciled back in high on her forehead and whose lips had been made fuller by the application of lipstick well beyond their natural outline. "Yes?"

"Me an' th' ol' man," she gestured toward a portly older man with graying hair, no teeth, and a light blue polyester sport coat that bulged over his round belly and strained at the button. Jesse smiled even more uneasily when the gentleman gave him a gummy grin and a wave.

The woman continued blithely talking. "Well, we war havin' a right good time watchin' you wit' yer crawdads, but it jus' 'bout broke our hearts when we seen dat you give up on 'em."

"I see," Jesse said, but it was clear that he didn't. Her accent, neither Texas nor Cajun, but a muddy mixture of the two, was pleasant to listen to but hard to understand.

Mark chuckled. "My friend was being adventurous," he said. "He wanted to try some foods he'd never had before, but I don't think he knew what to do with the crayfish."

"So Ah noticed," the woman replied. Turning back to Jesse, she said, "Ordinar'ly Ah wou'n't wan' come 'tween a man an' his crawdad bawl, but if you like, Ah kin show you how to eat 'em."

Jesse glanced at Mark, who smiled encouragingly, and then at Amanda who gave a barely perceptible shake of her head, and, grinning mischievously back at his pretty friend, he turned to the woman and said, "Please, do."

"Ain't nothin' to 't," the friendly woman said. "Jus' tink o' it like a perfume bottle wit' a tight cap on."

She confidently picked up a crawdad in her right hand, holding on to the thorax and tail segments and leaving the head exposed. "Hold it upright so you don' spill nothin', den twist off th' haid and suck out th' insides."

She demonstrated, finishing with a slurp and a grin. "Dat's some ser'ous good food," she said. "Gone, now, you try."

As Jesse grinned and picked up a crawdad, Amanda stood up, and trying valiantly but rather unsuccessfully to keep a pleasant smile on her face for the benefit of the helpful stranger, said, "Well, I think I've had quite enough. I'm going back to my room to call the boys."

Jesse followed her with his eyes, and loudly slurped the juices out of his first crawdad just as she walked past him.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

Cheryl sat beside Steve's bed, still watching him sleep. Jesse and Amanda had come and gone, spending most of their visit arguing about table manners and strange food, and still she sat there. Steve's new doctor, a woman named O'Halloran had come to check on him, and she stayed by his side. Ron Wagner had called from Washington, and Steve had slept through the call while Cheryl told the FBI agent how her partner was doing. She knew, if Mark would let her, she would willingly spend the night on a cot next to his bed, but she didn't doubt that if anyone spent the night in Steve's room looking after him it would be his dad.

And all the while she sat there, she thought about her conversation with Warrick Brown. Was there someone special back in LA? She didn't know, but if Steve's health had been better, she would have shaken him awake and asked him.

She had never imagined that she would still be unattached this late in life, and she never would have thought that the most important person in her world would be someone she worked with. She'd always been fond of her partner, but in the few days since they had boarded the plane together, her feelings for him had deepened and changed to the point where she really didn't know what to do with herself anymore. When she had seen how vulnerable and frightened he looked in the emergency room, all she had wanted to do was take care of him. Then, after her conversation in the hospital ladies' room with Kathryn and the spectacle the FBI agent had made of herself after the _Cirque du Soleil _show, she had wanted to defend him from the predatory female. When she watched him sleeping that day in the suite, she had started to wonder what other possibilities might lay in store for the two of them. Now she just wanted to know how her partner felt about her.

She brushed away a tear, surprised to find that she was crying. She felt awash in emotions, only a few of which she could name: relief and delight that he was alive, anger and frustration that he had been put at risk again, regret for all the time they had squandered when they could have been more than partners and colleagues, excitement and anticipation of what the future held, and something bubbly and giddy that she wanted to call love.

And a little fear that her feelings might not be reciprocated.

"Cheryl?" The voice was weak, but oh, so welcome.

"Hey, Partner," she said in a voice choked with feeling. "It's about time you woke up again." She poured him a cup of water and held the straw to his lips.

Steve sipped slowly, and then lay back against his pillows with a sigh. "Ahh. Thank you." He squinted at her, and then asked in shock, "Are you _crying_?"

She sniffed and dashed away her tears with the back of her hand. "Allergies," she lied, knowing how transparent she was to him.

Steve waited a full minute before he said anything more, and then, softly, "You don't have to tell me, but I will listen if you want to." He added a smile so she wouldn't feel pressured, "It's not like I have anything better to do right now."

She laughed and said sarcastically, "Oh, I am _so_ flattered." Then she grew more serious. _No time like the present, _she told herself. "Have you ever thought about settling down?"

Steve gave her the deer in the headlights look and then asked, "Before I answer that, you're not gonna tell me that you have found a new partner, are you?"

"No, why would you think that?"

"Because Kathryn asked me the exact same question before she told me she was dumping me for some guy named Winnie."

Cheryl laughed for real this time and said, "No, I am not dumping you, not for Winnie or anyone else."

"Good."

"So?"

"So, what? Oh, settling down, yeah, I've thought about it, but it kind of requires someone to settle down _with_."

"But you've never seemed to make any effort to find that someone. Why?"

He shrugged and looked around blearily for a few moments.

"Steve?"

He shrugged again, and this time answered her question. "I've always kind of thought she would just come along one day and I would know it was her. I mean with five billion people on the planet, the odds of finding the right one by going out and _looking _for her can't be a whole hell of a lot greater than they are if you just live your life and wait for her, you know? They might even be worse."

"Have you ever considered that you might already have found her?" Cheryl asked.

"And lost her, you mean?" He asked dimly.

Cheryl shook her head, and Steve got the idea. "Oh. Ohhh!"

She smiled and nodded when he didn't dismiss the suggestion out of hand. And then, when he seemed to have nothing more to say, she went on. "Do you remember when you were dating Carrie Langford Adams and she thought you and I had something going?"

"Uh-huh," Steve was still too fuzzy headed and too busy absorbing the realization to do more than grunt.

"Well, I know we both wondered what it would be like."

"Sometimes I still do," Steve admitted, and he could see by the smile on Cheryl's face that it was the reaction she had been hoping for.

"So do I," she replied. "Steve what if _we _are the right ones, for each other, I mean, and we never _do_ anything about it?"

"It's against department policy for partners to date, Cheryl, we could be split up if we are found out, or even fired if we try to keep it a secret."

"I know that, but Steve, when you were so sick, when I was afraid I would never get to talk to you again, that I would never get to talk to you about us, I wasn't thinking about my job. I was thinking about my life."

Steve just looked at her for a minute, and she wasn't sure whether he had nothing to say or was just afraid to say what was on his mind, so when he didn't speak, she continued.

"When we started partnering together, yeah, there was a mutual attraction and it was fun to flirt and tease and know that's all it would ever be, but somewhere along the line, you became one of the most important people in the world to me. I didn't even realize it until this week, and then, to almost lose you never having told you . . . "

She rubbed her eyes to get rid of the tears that kept plaguing her, and she nodded a thank you when Steve handed her his box of tissues so she could blow her nose.

"Well, now I have told you," she said, "and I'm sorry if it has made you uncomfortable, but I needed to say it." She was silent a moment, then, "Would you say something, anything, please, so I can stop babbling like an idiot? I really need to . . . "

Steve put a finger up to her lips, stopping the stream of verbiage that was threatening to drown them both. He could see the pain and fear in her eyes and silently cursed the circumstances that had caused all of the important people in his life to have to worry about him again; but he couldn't help feeling glad that it had led to this most unexpected confession from his partner.

"I'll be honest with you, Cheryl," he said. "I haven't seriously considered anything more than a professional relationship and a real close friendship with you in a long time, but the last time I did, I thought we could make a good couple some day. I'll be out of work for six weeks . . . "

He struggled to suppress a yawn. The fatigue was coming back quickly despite the sea of happy feelings moving inside him.

". . . and hopefully I'll start feeling a little more energetic before long. That might be a good time for us to, I don't know, see how we feel about dating one another, I guess. Then, when I get back to work, we could decide where we want to go from there."

When he saw her happy smile, he couldn't resist one small dig. Teasing had always been part of their relationship. "I have to warn you though . . ."

She frowned, "What?"

"It isn't easy dating a cop."

She laughed and plumped his pillows as he settled down for some more sleep. "So I've heard."

As he snuggled under the covers, he reached a hand out to her, and she took it.

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS_

Mark sat in the small room studying his nails while he waited for Frederick Wilson to be delivered into his presence. Everyone had advised against this meeting, but he still felt the need to confront the man who had tried to kill his son. As far as he was concerned, the sooner he got it out of his system, the better. A door opened, and Frederick, wearing an orange prison jumpsuit and irons, was escorted into the room by a guard.

"Hello, Mark," he greeted his former colleague just as cordially as if he had happened across him in the doctors' lounge at Community General.

Mark inclined his head slightly and sternly greeted the prisoner, "Frederick."

"It's good to see you, but I have to admit, I would have thought you'd want to be long gone from Las Vegas by now."

"Not without my son," Mark replied, "and he's not strong enough to leave yet."

"Oh, I see, and how is he doing?"

"His fever broke, he's come out of the coma, and he's been moved to a step-down unit."

"Oh, that is good news!" Frederick remarked. "I'll have to send him a card."

The two men sat in silence glaring at each other for a long moment, and then Frederick filled the void.

"You didn't come here just to stare at me, Mark. What do you want?"

"Why, Frederick?"

"Why what?"

"Why try to kill my son? Steve didn't even recognize you, neither did Cheryl nor I. If you had just treated him and then left him alone, we'd have gone back to LA and never been any the wiser. You were home free. Why jeopardize that?"

Frederick shrugged. "The opportunity presented itself."

Mark shook his head. "I don't believe that. You're not that irrational, there has to be more."

Frederick leaned forward and asked in a conspiratorial tone, "Do you really want to know?"

"That's why I'm here."

"I had a lousy childhood, Mark. I knew I wasn't wanted, I wasn't loved. I could have easily turned to drugs or gangs, done a lot of really horrible things, but I didn't. I made a conscious choice to go the other way. I made a choice, Mark, and I want you to remember that, I made a _choice _to do something worthwhile with my life. I studied hard and taught myself medicine, and you can't deny that I was a damned good doctor, even if I didn't have the degree and the formal training the law requires. Then my little sister came crawling out of the woodwork."

"She missed her brother and wanted to get to know him again," Mark reminded the man, doubting that he would care what Lily's motives were.

"Whatever. If she had just left me alone, things would have been so different. I would probably still be working at Community General." Frederick gave an ironic laugh. "I might even have been in line for your job someday."

"I doubt it," Mark murmured.

"Eh, I suppose not. You've probably named Jesse Travis your heir apparent by now. Anyway, as far as I knew, Lily was blackmailing me, threatening to ruin everything, and I couldn't allow that. I know it wasn't her fault that Lou Tyler lied to me about why she was there, but I had never asked her to look me up. When I left home, I said goodbye, and that should have been the end of it. Like I said, if she had just left me alone.

"Well, you know how things went from there. You and your son caught me, and I went to jail."

Frederick stopped talking as if he were finished. After a moment, Mark pressed him for more. "You still haven't answered my question. Why?"

Frederick gave a bitter smile and answered with a question. "Do you know what prison is like for a man like me?"

"I've been there," Mark replied. "I have an idea."

"Like hell you do!" Frederick snapped. "You were housed apart from the general population, and you knew you had someone working to get you out. I was thrown in among the common thugs and perverts, abandoned there to fend for myself."

"You murdered two people, Frederick, one of them your own sister, and you hired an assassin to kill a third. What did you expect?"

"She should have left me alone!" he shouted, and then went back to his diatribe about prison life. "No one there was as smart as me, no one was interested in the arts or literature. I couldn't have an intelligent conversation with anyone. And I am not a physically imposing man, so I was vulnerable to all sorts of . . . barbarities.

"You put me there, Mark, you and your son. I had made a _conscious choice_ to live a decent, productive life, contributing to society, despite the neglect I experienced in my formative years, and when my life was threatened, I defended myself. You and your son punished me for that. You gave no consideration to all I had accomplished. You just threw me in jail."

"A jury convicted you, Frederick."

"Because you told them to! If you had left well enough alone I never would have gone to trial." Frederick took a deep breath to steady himself. Then he looked Mark in the eye and said, "I never hated a soul until you and Steve sent me to prison. I learned to hate there, and when fate dropped Steve in my lap, it was an opportunity I couldn't pass up. It was the perfect opportunity to kill him and punish you.

"I'm surprised, though, and a little offended, that when I escaped you never considered me a threat. I always thought you had believed I a was dangerous man, a sociopath, maybe, to have sent me away in the first place, but now, I guess you didn't give me much thought at all."

"On the contrary," Mark said, "we never doubted you were dangerous, Frederick, but we always knew you were too smart to come back for revenge. We just never accounted for the remote possibility that you might go back into medicine and that one of us might become your patient. If you had just been as smart as we thought, if you had done the procedure and then left Steve alone to recover, you'd be a free man today."

Frederick leaned forward across the table until he was almost nose to nose with his visitor. "Watch your back, Mark. I will get out again, and when I do, I won't wait for fate to bring you to me."

_WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, STAYS IN VEGAS_

"Ahhh, it will be so good to get home," Steve sighed as he settled into his seat in the departure lounge next to his dad. "The sun, the sand, the surf. I can't wait."

Mark laughed. "All you're gonna do is sleep for another week."

Steve grinned and gave his dad a sideways glance, "But I'll be doing it at home."

Jesse and Amanda were off checking in their luggage, and Cheryl had gone to one of the restaurants to get them all something to drink while they waited. In the two weeks Steve had remained in Desert Springs Hospital, she had made the LA-to-Vegas round trip three times, and this time, she was happily flying home with him.

"Do you and Cheryl have any plans?" Mark asked offhandedly.

Neither of them had said anything to anyone about the change in their relationship, but if the frequency of her visits to Las Vegas hadn't tipped them off, finding them curled up together, sound asleep on his hospital bed halfway through _The Naked Gun_ certainly had.

Steve shrugged. "Like you said, all I'm gonna do is sleep for another week," he replied coyly and let his eyes drift closed.

"Mark! Steve! I'm glad I caught you."

The effort of walking from the cab to the departure lounge had left Steve too tired to be startled by the unexpected voice, so all he could do was open his eyes.

"Kathryn? What are you doing here? How did you get here? I didn't think they let non-passengers come this far anymore."

She smiled. "An FBI ID opens a lot of doors, Sloan." Turning to Mark, she said, "I don't mean to be abrupt, Mark, but could you excuse us a moment."

Frowning, Mark nodded. "Uh, sure. Steve, I'm going to go check on Jesse and Amanda. I'll be back in about five minutes."

"Ok, Dad." Looking at Kathryn, he asked, "What brings you back to Vegas?"

"I told you I'd be coming back for a visit before long. I was lucky to catch you here. I was surprised to find you had all checked out of the hotel already this morning."

"I just got out of the hospital yesterday," Steve explained, "and Dad insisted that I spend a day resting before I tried to make the flight home. Why didn't you just catch up with us in LA?"

She smiled excitedly and told him, "I have news, and I wanted to tell you personally."

"Oh, what's up?"

"I've applied for a transfer to the LA Bureau and it has been approved."

"Oh." He knew it wasn't the reaction she had been hoping for, but he couldn't come up with anything else.

"Isn't that great?" she continued gamely, trying to help him work up some enthusiasm.

"Huh? Oh, yeah," Steve agreed, doing his best to sound glad for her, "but you didn't do that on my account, did you?"

"Steve, you know I was only with Winnie because he was there," she said in confusion. "Now that I'm in LA _you_ are."

"Kathryn, a good relationship requires a lot more than just physical proximity."

"I know that, but it's sure a hell of a lot easier when the two people at least live in the same state," she said. "What's wrong with you?"

"Hi, Kathryn!" Cheryl called in greeting to the FBI agent as she approached and then plopped down in the seat next to Steve. Turning to him, she handed him a foam cup with a straw poking out the top. "Sorry I took so long, Babe, but most places don't have any soda that's diet _and _caffeine free, and that's what your dad ordered for you. At least it's cold."

Suddenly realizing that neither of them had returned her greeting, she looked up at Kathryn and said, "I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?"

Kathryn gave her a mangled smile and said, "No, I believe I am." Turning to Steve she said, "Well, I'm glad you're feeling better. Have a nice flight."

She began to walk away, but after she had gone several steps, Steve called out, "Kathryn!"

She turned and told him, "It's ok. I didn't wait for you to come to me. There's no reason why I should have expected you to wait for me. I'll see you around."

"I never meant to hurt you," he said.

"I know."

After Kathryn was swallowed by the crowd, Cheryl asked Steve, "What was that all about?"

"I'll tell you later," he promised as he slouched down in his seat and rested his head on her shoulder.

"Ok." She turned and kissed him on the top of the head and then listened as his breathing got deeper and slower until he had dozed off while waiting for the plane that would take them home. Together.


End file.
